


see your world in traces

by spibsy (lucy_and_ramona)



Series: see your world in traces [1]
Category: Professional Wrestling
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Ableism, Canon-Typical Violence, Dissociation (not POV character), Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 11:14:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 91,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1548578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucy_and_ramona/pseuds/spibsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An FCW-era fic which covers from Seth and Dean's twenty-minute match for the FCW 15 championship all the way until the night before Survivor Series 2012. Sometimes, when you compete against somebody, you come to appreciate their skill. And sometimes, you even come to like them. This is how Seth and Dean learn to like each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. close my eyes again and dream of you instead

**Author's Note:**

> This story took me four months to write but it was so fun and I feel really accomplished, having finished it. A few notes: I'm aware both FCW and NXT shows were/are pre-filmed and not live. Disregard that for this story, it just didn't work for what I wanted to do. For the purposes of this, FCW and NXT are broadcast live. In addition to that, if there are any details that make you go 'That doesn't seem realistic/canon-compliant!' then, well, I know. It had to be that way and I'm very sorry. I recognize that things in FCW/NXT/WWE very likely don't work this way, but this is a fictional story about wrassleboyfriends and I'll do what I want.
> 
> As always, thanks to Damien for being the best. ♥

Seth really, really hates Dean Ambrose.

Being a wrestler, you get used to disliking people. Everybody’s competing to be the best; you don’t get into this industry without the intention of becoming a champion, and when everybody’s vying for the same prize, everybody’s butting heads. The guy who has the title is always the guy you want to beat, and when you _are_ the guy who has the title, a lot of people want to beat you, and some of them are willing to cheat to do it.

So, yeah, Seth dislikes a lot of people in the FCW locker room. But he _hates_ Dean Ambrose.

Dean Ambrose, who goes out there every week and tells the world that Seth Rollins is a joke, that he’s a false champion, that he doesn’t deserve to have what he does. Seth has worked his ass off to be where he is, and Dean fucking Ambrose has the nerve to show up and say that he’s better? 

It’s been two weeks since he first got into the ring with Ambrose. Two weeks and no pins, no submissions, no falls at all. Two weeks and Dean Ambrose still hasn’t beat him, but Seth hasn’t beat Ambrose, either.

He’d heard that Ambrose was coming to FCW and, like any performer, had looked up old matches. Ambrose specializes in the kinds of matches that any sane competitor would avoid like the plague: dog collar matches, barbed wire matches, thumbtack matches. Ambrose seems to be in his element then, but the FCW 15 match doesn’t have any of those things. It’s just wrestling. And Ambrose is like no other wrestler Seth’s ever scouted.

He’s completely unpredictable. He doesn’t wrestle like a human being wrestles. Seth’s wrestled some amazing wrestlers in his time, but they all have a style, a method, a fluidity. Dean Ambrose doesn’t have any of those things. He’s jerky and his style is to have no style; he’s methodical but it’s not kind of method that Seth could use against him. 

The man’s laughed in Seth’s face when he’s punched him. He’s taken Seth’s finishing moves and kicked out of them. He’s brought Seth to his absolute limits and Seth just can’t. Fucking. Beat him. Fifteen minute matches. Twenty minute matches. It’s unprecedented for there to be no falls at the end of an FCW 15 match. And yet they’ve had two matches, and neither of them’s been able to beat the other.

Ordinarily, keeping his title would be enough. He’s still the champion, he still has that, he hasn’t lost it. But he can’t help but feel that it’s not winning if there are no falls. It’s like keeping the title on a fluke, as though he keeps getting himself disqualified. It makes him feel dirty. He won this legitimately, because he’s good at what he does, and somehow Ambrose is making a fool of him without even pinning him.

The first time was bad enough. Fifteen minutes with no falls makes for an amazing match with a shitty, nonsense ending. It’s the _Grease_ of matches, and Seth and Ambrose are sailing away in the flying car. 

But now they’ve gone two weeks. Two weeks and no falls. Thirty-five minutes of wrestling and not one single pin. It doesn’t make any sense. Seth’s better than Ambrose. He’s _better_ than him, no matter what Ambrose spews on that microphone. Seth can beat him, so why hasn’t he?

He’s lucky nobody’s come into his locker room to offer condolences, or, worse, congratulations. He couldn’t handle congratulations. He doesn’t deserve them, hasn’t done anything, hasn’t won anything. It was a good match. He knows that. But if there’s no winner, it might as well have not happened at all.

And as though somebody could hear his thoughts, there’s a knock on his door, five quick taps with someone’s knuckles. Seth sighs. He’s so incredibly not in the mood. He just hopes it’s not someone from management because then he’ll have to play nice. He doesn’t feel like playing nice. He feels like punching somebody until they’re unconscious and then pinning them, just to prove that he can still beat someone.

He’ll just have to tell whoever’s at the door to leave, and they’ll have to deal with it. And if it gets him into a fight, well, good.

When he opens the door, Dean Ambrose is leaning against the door frame, not a care in the world, and Seth blinks, sure he has to be seeing things.

Ambrose grins at him. “Hey, sweetie, miss me?” he asks. Okay, so Seth isn’t seeing things. No hallucination of his could be as annoying as the real thing. Somehow, the man knows all of Seth’s buttons and he’s pushed every one of them.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Seth asks, his teeth gnashing together. His fists clench without him really thinking about it, just at the sight of Ambrose’s stupid smug face. 

Ambrose shoves past him, hip-checking him out of the way and giving Seth’s locker room a onceover like he belongs there. “Yours is nicer than mine,” he comments, folding his arms across his chest. “I’m gonna file a complaint.”

He’s chewing gum. Doesn’t give a shit about anything. Seth wants to make him bleed. He’s never felt this intensely about anything, he doesn’t think. He’s never wanted to smash someone’s face in more than he wants to smash Dean Ambrose’s face in. 

He looks back over his shoulder at Seth, raising his eyebrows. “You’re pretty quiet. I was expecting more.”

Seth slaps him across the face.

He was going for a punch but opens his hand at the last second, and the smack of his hand hitting Ambrose’s cheek is incredibly satisfying until he hears it: another laugh, quiet and choked, a cut off hiccup of laughter. The spot Seth hit him is already going pink, and Ambrose is still just laughing.

He sees red. One moment he’s standing up and the next, Ambrose is on the ground and Seth is on top of him and he’s still in his wrestling gear and Ambrose is in jeans and a t-shirt and the contrast of it is harsh and rough and he’s pretty sure Ambrose is still laughing even as Seth hits him and then Seth is the one on his back and Ambrose is the one hitting him and then it’s Seth on top again and over, and over, and over, back and forth, neither of them winning. Just like the matches. Ambrose can’t beat him, but he can’t beat Ambrose.

Seth’s breathing hard when he realizes that he’s the one on his back now, and Ambrose is pinning him down with his hips and a hard forearm across his throat.

“Gotta say,” Ambrose comments, breathing just as hard as Seth is, “I didn’t expect that to be the thing that set you off. You’ve gotta work on your temper, kid.”

_Kid_. At most, Ambrose is a year or two older than Seth and he doesn’t even know that for sure. He’s got no business calling Seth a _kid_ , not when Seth’s been doing this just as long as he has and Seth is just as good as he is.

“Get off me,” Seth chokes out, trying to twist his legs out from underneath Ambrose, but all he ends up doing is shoving his hips up against Ambrose’s, and Ambrose is hard, and Seth is hard, and Ambrose is still on top of him.

Ambrose laughs again, that boyish, freaky giggling, but he does get his arm off Seth’s throat, and that’s all the leverage Seth needs to catch him off balance and flip him over. Ambrose doesn’t seem bothered, and that makes Seth angrier than anything else.

“What’re you gonna do, Seth?” Ambrose asks. Seth’s thighs are bracketing his, and even though Seth knows that this happens all the time, and it’s part of the adrenaline rush, he can’t help but feel like it’s different when they’re like this, when they’re not in the ring. They’re fighting but they’re not wrestling and Seth’s still hard and all he can think to do is kiss Ambrose in the hope that it’ll surprise him so much that he never says anything ever again. 

Ambrose, instead, just surges up against Seth. His lips are chapped. His hands are sliding up Seth’s back, and one fists in his hair, using it to tilt Seth’s head so that he can kiss him at a different angle. He doesn’t seem phased at all, only kisses Seth back twice as hard as Seth’s kissed him. His mouth is hot and wet and demanding, and even if Seth wanted to stop kissing him, he doesn’t know if he’d be able to.

He’s kissing Dean Ambrose on the floor of his locker room. He can’t pin him, or make him submit, but apparently he can make out with him just fine. 

Ambrose uses the hand in Seth’s hair to yank his head back and it stings, and then Ambrose’s mouth is on his neck, biting and sucking and kissing, drawing noises from Seth that he doesn’t want to be making. He doesn’t want Ambrose to know he likes it. He wants to make Ambrose beg, wants to be better than him at this even if he can’t prove he’s better than him at anything else.

When Ambrose shifts, propping himself up on his elbows so that he can get closer, Seth gets an arm around his back and pulls, shoving Ambrose up into a sitting position. This way, Seth’s taller, and he can get a better angle when he pushes Ambrose’s face back up to kiss him again.

He’s not sure, but he thinks the muffled sounds Ambrose is making are more laughter, and Seth wants to make him forget how to laugh at all. He gets a hand on the back of Ambrose’s shirt and pulls it over his head, then kisses him again before he can react, more comfortable now that there’s at least skin touching skin. 

Ambrose makes a _sound_ when Seth bites his bottom lip. It’s not a laugh. It’s not anything even close to a laugh. It’s an aborted moan, twisting off at the end into a whimper, and Seth bites him again because it’s one of the best noises he’s ever heard. It echoes in his head like the sound of the bell when he’s just won a hard-fought match.

“Like that?” he says. It’s the first thing either of them have said since Seth kissed Ambrose, and it comes out harsh and mocking.

Ambrose grins at him, toothy and pink-mouthed, his hair a mess, a flush creeping down past his collarbones, and says, “You have no idea what I like, pal.”

Seth has no idea about anything anymore, to be fair, but he knows that Ambrose likes biting. He knows more about Dean Ambrose than he did an hour ago, and he can build on that.

He does what Ambrose did to him, fisting a hand in his hair and jerking backward until he can get at Ambrose’s neck. He bites him hard, wanting Ambrose to have to remember this when he looks in the mirror, remember that Seth can get one up on him just as well as Ambrose can. He wants to leave a mark on Ambrose. He wants to force Ambrose to think of him when he doesn’t want to, wants to brand himself into Ambrose’s brain until he’s there forever. 

While he’s doing that, Ambrose’s fingers play at the waist of Seth’s trunks, and then dip inside, his hand curling around his cock in a hot, firm grip. It makes Seth jerk back, a protest on his lips that Ambrose must have been anticipating because he kisses him hard before he can get it out.

“I could try to get you off without touchin’ your dick if you want,” Ambrose drawls in that voice that makes Seth want to hit him again. “Could be kinda fun, but it’d take a while.”

“Shut up, Ambrose,” Seth mutters, getting his mouth back on Ambrose’s neck. He’s inherently markable, not even any tattoos, and Seth wants to bruise him more than he’s wanted to bruise anybody else and it’s for entirely different reasons. He likes the way that it makes Ambrose shudder, just a little, and the sounds that Ambrose tries to suppress but can’t quite. It makes Seth feel powerful. Like he’s beating Ambrose at his own game.

“You could probably call me Dean,” mumbles Ambrose, tilting his head to let Seth do what he wants. That sends a thrill down his spine, too. “Considering I’m giving you a handjob.”

To punctuate his words, the hand in Seth’s trunks strokes up and then down in one smooth movement, and Seth’s mouth falls slack on Ambrose’s skin.

“Like that?” Ambrose asks in a direct mimic of what Seth had asked him, mocking him, and Seth bites him again. 

“You have no idea what I like,” Seth grinds out, his mouth hot and leaving kisses between words, “ _pal_.”

He feels like he’s on fire, or maybe the world is. Ambrose somehow knows exactly how he likes it, a rough twist of his wrist on the end of every upstroke, and he’s leaning up against Seth’s mouth. Eager. Seth kisses him again and his mouth tastes like laughter and spearmint.

The hand that’s not in Seth’s trunks is on his thigh, blunt nails digging in just like Seth’s seen him do in old matches, just like he’s had done to him. He’d had red stripes down his back for two days, and one of his friends had asked if he’d had a good night with some girl. Seth told him he just had a match with a psychopath.

He wonders if Ambrose in bed is anything like Ambrose in the ring, then immediately shuts down that thought. He doesn’t care and he’s not going to find out. He’s not sure what this is, but he does know that this is the only fucking time it’s happening. He can call it a lapse in judgment when he wakes up tomorrow morning.

Ambrose huffs a laugh, breathless, and moves in a full-body roll of his hips, his mouth slanting across Seth’s. “Figures,” he mutters, his lips damp, his words swallowed by Seth’s mouth, “shoulda known you’d be an uptight little thing even when you’re gettin’ your rocks off.”

He laughs again then, and this one makes a shudder roll down Seth’s spine, because it’s more than a little unhinged. “I’m gonna like takin’ you apart,” Ambrose says, conversational, like he’s asking about the weather. “Bet I could make you scream.”

“Shut up,” Seth growls. He wishes he knew where the off-switch for Ambrose’s mouth was, or that he had some duct tape, or something. “Shut your _mouth_.”

“I’ve got a good mouth.” Ambrose does, and that’s the most infuriating thing, is that he talks a big game and he does it well, and right now his mouth is pink and shiny, and Seth wants to fuck it. Fuck it or gag it.

Seth wants to get up and shove Ambrose away from him, out of his locker room, out of his life. Instead, he grits his teeth, and Ambrose grins toothily at him while he undoes the button on his jeans. His other hand hasn’t faltered on Seth’s cock, and it’s shooting sparks into his brain, which might have something to do with his general inability to tell him to shove it.

He hisses when Ambrose adjusts his grip, his hand now wrapping around Seth’s dick and his own, sliding them together with slippery friction that feels so good Seth’s not sure if this can actually be happening. It’s not like he never gets laid, but he doesn’t generally have this sense of rage at the back of his mind during it, and it’s heightening all of his emotions. He feels so angry he could die and so turned on he could die and so frustrated he could die.

“I bet you’ve never even been fucked,” Ambrose says out of nowhere, his hand tight enough around their dicks that it’s almost painful but Seth’s hips are still rocking forward into the touch. “Bet you’ve thought about it, though. Bet you’ve wondered what it’s like.”

Seth is nearly vibrating. He wants Ambrose to shut his mouth forever, wants to shut it for him, wants to punch him. Wants wants wants—he doesn’t know what he wants. How’s he supposed to think at a time like this? He’s never – and he _doesn’t_ – but – but then – no, it’s just Ambrose and his mind games again.

“Shut up.” He tries his best to make his voice strong, but it comes out more croaky than he’d like. He should’ve known better. Showing any hint of a weakness in front of a man like Dean Ambrose is a mistake.

Ambrose grins at him, like a shark smelling blood. “Bet you’d let me fuck you,” he pushes. “Bet you would. Bet you’d open up real nice for me, _Seth_. Bet you’d fuckin’ love it.”

Seth can’t hear anymore, and he thinks he might’ve bitten off his own tongue. Ambrose laughs again and kisses him, and his tongue’s still there because Ambrose’s is stroking over it, his free hand sliding up over Seth’s thigh and past his hip to the back of his trunks. He doesn’t go any farther but the implication is clear.

He bites Ambrose’s lip again. And then he comes, between them, making a mess of everything, and Ambrose doesn’t stop. He just uses the slick of Seth’s come to ease his own way, until he adds to the mess with a tremulous sigh against Seth’s mouth.

Seth feels boneless. His limbs aren’t quite working like they should, tingling and uncoordinated, and for a moment before he remembers himself, he drops his head to Ambrose’s shoulder and breathes in. Ambrose smells like sweat and cheap cologne and something vaguely fruity. 

And then Seth realizes what he’s doing and jerks his head back, but not before he notices that Ambrose’s hand was, tentatively, sliding up his back.

“Get what you came for?” Seth asks, pushing himself back off Ambrose’s lap and tucking back into his trunks. He’s sticky and uncomfortable now, prickly in more ways than one.

In contrast, Ambrose’s movements are smooth, almost languid, as he refastens his jeans. He’s smiling but it’s a weird one, not one Seth’s seen before.

“I just wanted to fuck with your head,” he says, rolling to his feet. “I didn’t think you’d go into heat.”

“Fuck off,” Seth mutters. Even though it’s what he wrestles in, and the whole world (or at least the world that watches FCW) sees him in it on a weekly basis, he all of a sudden wishes he wore longer trunks. Maybe a singlet. Or something with pants. He can see smears of come on his stomach and he’s not sure if it’s his own or Ambrose’s.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ambrose sketches out a mocking bow. “Your wish is my command, princess,” he says, ambling toward the door. He pauses there, his hand on the knob. “You know they’re gonna put us in another match next week, right?”

“They’ll put us in matches until one of us wins.” And the other one loses. Seth hopes it’s obvious from his glare that Ambrose is going to be the one losing.

Ambrose smiles, breezy and confident. “I’m gonna get the first fall next week, I think.”

Seth immediately commits to getting the first fall. And the second, just to rub it in. “Is that so.”

Another one of those crazy little laughs, and Ambrose turns the handle. “Yep. See you next week, sweetie. Try not to miss me too much.”

He blows Seth a kiss, and Seth grabs the first thing he can reach, which happens to be his wrist tape, and pegs it at the door, but Ambrose is already gone.

\--

Seth doesn’t know what he’s expecting the next time he steps into the ring for a match with Ambrose. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting any time he steps into the ring with Ambrose, nobody does, but he doesn’t think it’s part of Ambrose’s ring psychology to jerk off his opponents, though if his goal was to get into Seth’s head, he’s fucking done that. It’s been a week and Seth can’t stop thinking about it, what it meant, what it means, how the match is going to go. 

Standing across the ring from Ambrose, everything else fades into the background. He knows wrestling, and that’s what he has to do. His mind is clear.

Ambrose gives him this little smile, a smirky, smug smile, and Seth’s confusion all settles into one feeling. He wants to slap the taste out of Ambrose’s mouth. From then on, it’s wrestling; nothing more, nothing less.

Seth has to give credit where it’s due: Ambrose can keep up with him. He matches Seth at every turn, grapples and flips and pin attempts. He predicts Seth’s move-set, and always manages to be one step ahead of him, but Seth’s one step ahead of him, too. This is why they’ve had three matches and no falls so far; somehow, despite never wrestling before, they know each other too well.

He’s just getting used to the pace of it, the tide turning ever so slightly his way, and then off a backflip Ambrose takes a deliberate step forward and kicks Seth right in the balls.

Everything’s a haze of pain for a few minutes after that, and the next time Seth’s fully aware of what’s happening, Ambrose is up two falls to one. The first fall between them, the first fall after almost a fucking hour total of wrestling was a goddamn low blow because Dean Ambrose is a lunatic, and now Seth’s down a fall.

Oh, for a person with no moral compass, it’s a genius move. Sacrifice a fall in order to gain two. But it’s an asshole move from an asshole person and Seth was determined to beat him before but now he’s pissed off. He’s going to beat Dean Ambrose here tonight or he’s going to die trying.

The rest of the match is kind of a blur. The only thing Seth’s paying attention to other than his blows landing is Cameron’s voice whenever a fall is called, and then, at the end of the match, when _all that time still wasn’t enough_ , he gets a lifeline. Sudden death. Overtime.

He can work with overtime.

Seth finds an opening. It takes two Avada Kedavras but Ambrose finally _stays down_ , and Seth _wins_ , he beat Dean Ambrose, he did it, he retained his championship because he is better, he’s better than Ambrose and now he has proof.

He lets himself celebrate the moment as the show ends, riding the high of victory all the way into the back, all the way into his locker room, where he can sit down and stare at the medal and try to stop shaking. He’s better. He proved it tonight: he’s better than Ambrose.

Seth has to breathe carefully in and out until the world stops spinning, the adrenaline making the walls tilt and the door look like it’s moving.

Oh, or the door is actually moving. Opening. Seth’s not even really surprised when it’s Ambrose, still in his ring gear, sweaty and holding his head and not as good as Seth.

Ambrose is kind of glaring but he’s also kind of smiling, which is a combination of expressions Seth wouldn’t have previously thought possible. He doesn’t know what Ambrose is going to say but it doesn’t matter, anyway, because Seth beat him.

The door closes behind Ambrose. “Told you I’d get the first fall,” he mutters, smug as ever even while he’s rubbing his head.

“And who got the last fall, shithead?” Seth replies, pulling the medal down around his neck. Of course, Ambrose just smiles at him, barely even glaring anymore. “And mine was an actual pinfall, as opposed to your cheap shot.”

Ambrose tilts his head, squinting at Seth. “You seem upset,” he states, ambling toward Seth and plopping down on one of the other chairs in the room like he’s been invited. “I’m sorry, did it hurt? It’s a fuckin’ wrestling match, dude.”

“That’s not wrestling. Considering it’s against the rules, it’s kind of the opposite of wrestling,” Seth shoots back.

Ambrose isn’t smiling anymore. He’s frowning a little, actually, mirroring Seth’s body language and leaning forward. “Are you actually pissed off about that?” he asks. “I told you I was gonna get the first fall. So it was a nutshot. I could’ve choked you out, too, or hit you with somethin’. I told you,” he repeats, like that makes a difference.

“Or you could’ve gotten the fall legitimately?” Seth suggests, in disbelief that Ambrose thinks that his problem is with the _method_ of disqualification.

Ambrose sighs heavily and folds his arms like Seth's the one invading his space, wasting his time. "I can't go back and undo it, can I? So you might as well stop sulking. What, do you want me to kiss it better?"

God fucking damn it all, Seth hesitates for just a second, a second too long when you're dealing with Ambrose, who seizes that second and devours it whole, his face gleeful, delighted.

"You _do_ ," he says, grinning at Seth. "Well, all you had to do was say so, Seth. I'll give you what you want, all you gotta do is ask for it."

He drops fluidly to his knees, remnants of that grin visible in the faint dimple in his cheek, and he mouths over Seth's cock through his trunks.

Seth wants to have the willpower to tell him to fuck off, because his dick’s still throbbing faintly from the low blow, and because this guy’s the one who did that to him, and this is the guy who plays mind games with him, who wants his championship. He wants to be able to knee him in the chin.

But the wisps of adrenaline are still coursing through his veins, and even if it’s not in the ring, he has Dean Ambrose on his knees. That feels good. He can blame it on the adrenaline, on the rush of power, when he threads his fingers into Ambrose’s hair and holds him where he is.

“Not going anywhere,” Ambrose mumbles. His tongue swipes out over his lips, and he tugs down the waist of Seth’s trunks enough to press his lips to the dusting of hair at the base of Seth’s cock. It doesn’t look like a position he’s unfamiliar with. Seth wonders how many other opponents Ambrose has played this game with. He wonders if any of them told him to fuck off.

He thinks, looking down at Ambrose on his knees with his pink mouth and his wicked tongue and the carefully calculated submission in the downturn of his eyes, not many of them did.

“Off,” Ambrose insists in a mutter, tucking his thumbs up the legs of Seth’s trunks and pulling them down. Seth lifts his hips after a second to help, eyes flicking to the door. It’s not locked, as far as he knows, but other than Ambrose, nobody would come in without knocking.

It’s startling to see, to feel, when he’s not feeling as much… _feeling_ , when it’s just them and Ambrose’s hand on his dick, and there’s no fluster or yanking or scrambling. Seth’s clinging to the thought that it’s just the remaining adrenaline, but he knows that he can’t really blame it on that. The truth is that Ambrose is offering and Seth’s been thinking about last week since it happened and he fucking wants to know what Ambrose looks like with Seth’s cock in his mouth. That’s it.

Ambrose is gripping with his right hand, his other hand on Seth’s thigh, his nails digging in just enough for it to sting but not enough for Seth to move it. When Ambrose licks his lips, his eyes meet Seth’s, and he smiles, the groove of that dimple in his cheek. 

“I’m about to blow your fuckin’ mind,” he informs him before he mouths down over the head of Seth’s dick. His breath is hot, and his tongue flicks in a movement that makes Seth hiss. His hand clenches in Ambrose’s hair. It’s probably hard enough to hurt but Ambrose doesn’t even flinch, instead humming and letting his hand stroke up to meet his mouth.

He has really long eyelashes. That’s a weird thing to notice when somebody’s giving you a blowjob, but Ambrose’s eyes are closed and that means his eyelashes are fluttering down. It makes him look uncharacteristically vulnerable, and Seth has no doubt he knows it.

As it turns out, Ambrose looks amazing with Seth’s cock in his mouth. Seth half wishes he could take a picture as a flush spreads high on his cheekbones, his mouth dipping lower and lower to meet his hand. It’s visible, the way he catalogues the noises Seth makes or the shifts of his hips, the way he stores the information to use later. When he pulls off to take a breath, through lips obscenely slick with spit that’s smeared across his chin, he looks up at Seth through his eyelashes. Flirtatious and deliberate and cocky, everything Ambrose always is. It pisses Seth off and turns him on in equal measure.

He urges Ambrose’s head back down with the hand in his hair and Ambrose goes willingly, his mouth opening to take in Seth’s cock again, just as easy and hot as he did before. He’s not gripping Seth’s thigh anymore; instead his arm curls loosely around Seth’s legs, draping himself across them. The slack grip of his hand around Seth’s dick is just this side of not enough, his mouth just that side of too much.

“Do this often?” Seth asks. His mouth is dry, and he doesn’t particularly want to know, but the words come out of his mouth anyway.

Ambrose laughs, and the vibration of it makes Seth shudder as Ambrose pulls off again, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the side of Seth’s dick. “Nope,” he murmurs, “only for the prettiest princess at the ball.”

His voice is raspy, pitched lower than it usually is. Seth did that, he thinks with a combination of alarm and satisfaction. He made Ambrose sound like that.

“I’m not a fucking princess,” he says, because it’s the principle of the thing, and he pulls with the hand in Ambrose’s hair, hard enough that it definitely hurts. Ambrose moans, his mouth open against Seth’s thigh, and Seth’s expecting a bite or a snarky comment or maybe even for Ambrose to get up and leave.

Instead, he just murmurs, “Okay,” in a voice that shakes in something close to a stammer, and kisses the crease between Seth’s thigh and his hip, and puts his mouth back on Seth’s cock.

It’s an astonishing feeling, the sense of vague power in this, Ambrose on his knees, sucking his dick, how Seth can make him groan without doing anything at all. It shoots in pulses of arousal straight to his groin, his breath coming in faster pants. His head feels like it’s going to float off his shoulders.

When he comes, it’s an avalanche of sensation, his head tipping back even though a tiny voice in the back of his head tells him to keep his eyes on Ambrose, to watch him take it, to see the way he swallows Seth’s come, because he is swallowing it, the tight suction of his mouth steady through Seth’s orgasm. He does his best not to make any noise, but he can’t help the quiet whimper that squeaks its way past his bitten lip.

By the time he can lift his head again, his limbs feel loose and achey, as though he’s finished a satisfying workout, and Ambrose’s head is leaned onto Seth’s thigh, his eyes closed. There’s a smudge of spunk at the corner of his mouth, and as Seth watches, his tongue curls out to lick it away.

Seth’s hand is still in Ambrose’s hair. He thinks about moving it, then leaves it where it is.

“Told you I’d blow your mind,” Ambrose mumbles, the self-satisfied little prick. He’s smiling, rubbing his cheek against Seth’s leg like an oversized cat. He looks as loose-limbed as Seth does, and he opens his eyes to look up at Seth and raise his eyebrows. “Didn’t I tell you? Man of my word.”

“Shut up,” Seth sighs. It’s less antagonistic than it should be, considering, well, everything. But maybe Ambrose has earned a little break from unadulterated animosity, considering he’s not exactly wrong.

“I did, though, didn’t I?” Ambrose asks, his smile a full-blown grin. “I just gave you the best blowjob of your goddamn life. I’m a champion cocksucker.”

“No,” says Seth firmly, pushing Ambrose’s head off his lap and ignoring the disgruntled grumble it provokes. “Get off me. This doesn’t change anything,” he warns, jerking his trunks up. The lazy pleasure of it all is dissipating, replaced with the natural vague irritation he feels whenever he sees Dean Ambrose’s face.

It doesn’t matter that said face is still flushed or that his mouth was just on Seth’s dick or that he’s still on his knees, his trunks tented, thighs spread to accommodate the bulge, unashamed and unapologetic as he keeps his eyes on Seth. None of that matters at all, because it’s still Dean Ambrose and he’s still a fucking asshole, and Seth still despises him. He needs to stop thinking with his dick and start thinking with his head again.

“Didn’t expect it to, princess,” Ambrose replies, bracing himself with a hand on the floor in order to get to his feet. He adjusts himself but doesn’t otherwise make to do anything about his hard-on, even though it must be nearing on painful at this point. “I just wanted to kiss and make it better. Never had an apology suck-off before?”

“No,” Seth states. He narrows his eyes at Ambrose, tipping his chin up. “You can leave now.”

Ambrose mockingly holds a hand to his (shriveled, blackened) heart, and then he leans down, his face about an inch away from Seth’s, his hands braced on Seth’s thighs.

“One of these days,” he says, that smirk at the edges of his lips again, “one of these days, I’m gonna let you fuck me, and I’m gonna be the best lay you’ve ever had, too, sweetheart. And that’ll be a better win than that fuckin’ medal any day.” 

He kisses Seth hard and Seth thinks he might crane up into it even though he means to pull away. Ambrose tastes like his come.

“Don’t call me that,” is all Seth can manage, a pathetic mutter against Ambrose’s lips. Ambrose laughs at him and Seth deserves it, because he’s weak and somehow, _somehow_ Ambrose has managed to win even though Seth beat him in the middle of the ring.

“I’ll call you whatever I want and it’ll still get your dick hard, babe,” Ambrose says. He laughs again, and then he leans back, upright and the self-assured tilt back in his hips. “This isn’t over.” He shrugs. “Maybe it’ll never be over,” he adds, then, with another grin, “I just can’t quit you.”

“Get out.” Seth forces a little command into his voice. “Now. Before I make you get out.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” Ambrose holds his hands up as if to show supplication, but Seth doesn’t buy it. Apart from a few lapses in judgment, he still doesn’t want Ambrose anywhere near him, and he definitely doesn’t trust him. “I just wanted to say one more thing.”

There’s a note to Ambrose’s voice that Seth really, really doesn’t like, but he can’t figure out what it is. Ambrose is waltzing toward the door with a laugh and a skip in his step, peppier than he was when he first came in.

“It’s kinda weird how we wrestled to a no contest three weeks in a row and you suddenly figured out how to beat me.” Ambrose is practically singing. “Really weird, isn’t it? One fall and you think it makes you better than me, but it doesn’t.”

“The match results disagree.” Seth nearly bites his tongue off when he snaps back. “What are you trying to say?”

“Nothing.” Ambrose laughs, a twisted, choked little sound. “Nothin’. You’re not better than me, that’s all. And in your heart of hearts, you know a pin in sudden death overtime isn’t much of a victory.”

“Get _out_ ,” Seth says, half a second from throwing something at Ambrose when he finally disappears around the doorframe. Seth breathes in, feels like he hasn’t done it in too long, and hopes (knowing it’s useless) that it’s the last time he has to deal with him.

\--

Seth wishes he could say he’s surprised when two weeks later, he’s told he has another match against Ambrose. He just can’t get away from the guy. At least this one’s not for his title. It’s for the number-one contendership for the Florida Heavyweight Championship, though, so maybe it isn’t actually less pressure to win. And of course, he’s got a bum arm.

He’s trying not to think about that part, but it’s hard when even taped, his arm throbs every now and again as a reminder of just how much he’s screwed it up. But he’s a fighter, and he always has been, and he doesn’t intend to let a hurt arm take away his chance to fight for that title.

He can see, on his way to the ring, how Ambrose’s eyes immediately focus on his wrapped arm, the black KT tape climbing up his shoulder. He didn’t bother to hide it; the bruising underneath will be like a target for Ambrose anyway, and this way he has the few moments of relief from the tape before it’s inevitably ripped away. Ambrose won’t let it be there for long.

Seth’s barely in the ring before Ambrose is in his face.

“Sure you wanna be facing me with a handicap?” asks Ambrose with a sneer as Seth yanks his shirt off over his head. “When you can barely beat me on your best day?”

“I appreciate your concern,” Seth says, rolling his shoulder. “But I don’t need both my arms to beat you.”

“Is that so?” Ambrose asks. He’s leaning closer now, intruding on Seth’s space, crowding him.

“Get out of my face,” says Seth, refusing to give an inch.

Ambrose smiles at him, a mockery of one, anyway. “I’ll try not to hurt you too bad,” he says, turning his back on Seth. His message there is clear, that he doesn’t see Seth as a threat, and Seth nearly hits him from behind just to prove a point. But that’s not how he plays things. He takes a deep breath to calm his jangling emotions, and the match is on.

Seth’s never expecting their matches to start out with chain mat wrestling, and yet that’s what they tend to do. Of course, all too soon after that, they degenerate into shouting, shoving matches, and Seth’s not the most forceful shover with his arm practically useless, but he thinks he gives as good as he gets. 

He _hates_ Ambrose, and yeah, sometimes he forgets, but he never feels it more than when they’re in the ring together, because Ambrose in the ring is _infuriating_. He fights dirty and he mouths off every chance he gets, and he’s an asshole. He’s a good wrestler, but he’s an asshole wrestler, too.

He’s surprised that it actually takes Ambrose more than two seconds to go after his shoulder. Maybe he’d thought Seth wouldn’t be as much of a challenge as he is, Seth doesn’t know, but it’s at least five minutes in before he hears Ambrose growl and then slam his left arm into the mat with as much force as he can muster.

Seth sees stars, a little. The pain is immense, and he curls in around his arm in an attempt to shield it from further blows, but Ambrose can smell blood now, and he twists Seth’s arm around the ring ropes, tearing at the wrap around it, leveling it with kicks and once it’s exposed, twisting it behind Seth’s back, stretching the torn muscle, digging his elbow into it once he has Seth in a hold that leaves him vulnerable.

If Seth’s being honest, he doesn’t remember much about the rest of the match. It’s mostly a haze of pain and anger and more pain, armbars and stomps and trying to mount any offense at all but being foiled at every turn.

He remembers hitting Blackout, Ambrose rolling out of the ring, and thinking for some reason that it would be a great idea to jump out of the fucking ring onto him.

He remembers being on Ambrose’s shoulders, and he remembers the bell ringing. He remembers it’s not his name being called.

The next moment he’s thinking clearly, he’s back in his locker room and his arm’s going numb which is good, because he can’t imagine how painful this would be if it wasn’t. He should get up, get some ice, but he’s stuck on losing, stuck on being pinned by Ambrose.

He doesn’t even bother looking up when his door opens, sure of who it’s going to be. And he’s right, because he recognizes the boots that enter his line of vision. There’s a thump as Ambrose sits down on the chair across from Seth, then silence.

“Did you need something?” Seth asks, finally, just so that there’s noise, and a little bit to make sure it’s not a hallucination, because the pain not-pain numb-pain is sending some seriously weird signals to his brain.

Ambrose grunts, and Seth jumps when something cold and heavy lands on his leg. He grabs to keep it from sliding off automatically. It’s a bag of ice.

“Figured you’d be too much of a stubborn asshole to go to the trainer’s on your own,” Ambrose says. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Seth looks curiously at the bag in his hand, cold and wet with condensation. He turns it over in his hand and squeezes, just a little, to feel the cubes inside.

He hears Ambrose sigh heavily. “You’re supposed to put it on your arm, idiot. Come on, this isn’t your first rodeo. You need to ice that sooner rather than later.”

“I know how to ice an injury,” Seth mumbles, hissing through his teeth as he carefully presses the ice to his bruised arm. At least the tape’s still there, so it’s still doing its job.

“You’re sucking all the fun out of this win,” Ambrose complains, prodding at Seth’s ankle with the toe of his boot. They’re not his wrestling boots, just generic black thick-soled boots. “I wanna gloat, but you’re so pathetic right now it just wouldn’t be any use.”

“I thought wild cruelty was kind of your thing,” says Seth. He shakes his head a little, trying to focus on anything but how much his arm is killing him. He’ll live. He’s had worse.

“That’s better,” Ambrose says when Seth looks up, peering at him as though he’s expecting to find something in Seth’s expression. “Even now.”

Seth hums. “For now,” he agrees, shifting the ice into a more comfortable position. 

“Kinda surprised you’re not saying it doesn’t count,” Ambrose says. He’s hinting at something with his tone, still squinting at Seth. “Considering your little problem there.”

“Wouldn’t have gotten into the ring if I thought it was going to be a problem,” Seth says. He tries to make it as forceful as possible. “I don’t make excuses, Ambrose. I lost, so I lost.”

“Huh.” Ambrose leans back in his seat, regarding Seth thoughtfully. “Interesting.”

“Not really,” Seth sighs. “Have you gloated enough?”

“Oh, I’m never done gloating,” says Ambrose. Less thoughtful now, he’s back to looking like the smarmy, smug bastard Seth knows he truly is inside. “Seriously, I bet after that last match we had you thought it was finished, that you’d, what, proven yourself? Turns out we’re only ever as good as each other after all.”

It’s that, that exactly, that’s been bothering Seth so much about this. He can take losses, he’s been beat before and he’ll get beat again, and ordinarily, even getting beat by Ambrose wouldn’t rankle this much. But he’d thought it was over. He’d thought that he’d proved, once and for all, that he was better, and two weeks later, he’s right back where he started, basically. Two contests fought to a draw, and each of them have one win. They might as well have not had any of those matches, because one win apiece is the same as no wins for either of them.

He grits his teeth. Ambrose notices, he’s sure.

“We’ll see,” he says, rolling his shoulder. His arm’s starting to hurt like hell again, the edge of adrenaline-fueled numbness wearing off, and he should really get ready to go before the pain gets so intense he has trouble driving. He knows he’s got friends, who would drive him back if he needed the ride, but it’s a hassle and, and… and it would feel a little like admitting defeat, even though he’s already been soundly defeated.

“I would really like to take a shower and go home,” he says frankly. 

Ambrose leers at him, and Seth rolls his eyes while he stands up. “Want some company?” asks Ambrose.

“Do I want company in the shower from the guy who just pinned me and then followed me to my locker room to brag about it?” Seth asks, deadpan. “No. No, I really don’t. And you’d better be out of my locker room by the time I’m finished.”

“You sound like a sore loser!” Ambrose shouts after him. “This isn’t over and you know it!”

But he _is_ gone by the time Seth gets out of the shower, at least. 

\--

Naïvely, Seth actually thinks he might be done with Ambrose for a while there. He has a blissfully Ambrose-free week, where he doesn’t even have to look at the guy, much less deal with a match against him. It’s so nice not to have to play by somebody else’s rules that finding out he’s defending his title against Damien Sandow the week after that is a blessing to him. Sandow’s a jerk, and he talks too much, but Seth knows he can beat him, at least, and he’s definitely not Ambrose.

He is, therefore, entirely surprised when his match gets interrupted with ten seconds to go by Ambrose in his stupid jacket, sliding past Seth – past Seth? Why would he – no, no – and then it hits him, as Ambrose goes barreling over Sandow and the referee has no choice but to call for the disqualification. That puts Sandow up a fall, and there’s no time left for Seth to do anything but stare as Ambrose slips out of the ring and back up the ramp.

The bell rings, and Seth’s lost his title.

It takes hearing the announcement for it to actually sink in, that he hasn’t just lost the match but the title, as well, the referee hanging it around Sandow’s neck. Sandow, who’s still flat on his back. What a joke. What a fucking joke, except Seth’s not laughing, but Ambrose is. By the time Seth figures out how his legs work again, Ambrose has disappeared into the back.

He tells himself it’s not worth it to find Ambrose and try to kill him. He’d get arrested, and then he can never get his title back. But it’s so tempting, and he considers it for a long second before he decides he’d rather just get out of there as quickly as he can.

Seth almost makes it to his car. He got dressed at warp speed and kept his head down while he nearly sprinted to the parking lot so that nobody would try to talk to him. He doesn’t know what the fuck anybody would say to him anyway. How could words make any of this better?

Ambrose cost him his title, and he wasn’t even in the goddamn match. One outside interference and now Damien Sandow’s going to be parading around with his medal like he actually earned it, knowing full well that without Ambrose, it would’ve been a draw. 

He wants to go home and lie on his bed and stare at the ceiling for a few hours, and he almost makes it to his car. Almost.

“Did you like that?” Ambrose’s voice makes fire streak down Seth’s spine, smug and gleeful, so happy about what he’s done. “I told you it wasn’t over, didn’t I?”

“Walk away,” Seth says without looking behind him. He’s staring at his own reflection in the driver’s side window. “Fucking walk away from me right now or I will knock your teeth down your throat.”

“Kinky.” Ambrose’s voice is closer now, of course, because he has no concern for his own safety. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like me anymore? You liked me a whole lot when your dick was in my mouth.”

“Turn around. Walk away.” Seth’s teeth are grinding so hard he thinks he might break one.

“Or what? Are you gonna spank me?” Ambrose laughs, and then hooks an arm around Seth’s neck from behind him, like they’re buddies, like they’re old friends. Seth rolls with the momentum of it and grabs Ambrose’s arm, yanking forward and stepping backward so that Ambrose is shoved against the car. He grunts, but he’s still smiling.

“I am not in the mood.” Seth has his forearm jammed against Ambrose’s throat to hold him in place, his thigh pushed between Ambrose’s for the same reason. He’s not even struggling, trying to get away. He’s calmly letting Seth hold him where he is, arms at his sides. “I’m not in the _fucking_ mood to play your _fucking_ games.” The expletives fly from his mouth like cannonballs. They feel nice on his lips.

“Sure you don’t wanna play any fucking games?” Ambrose says suggestively, tilting his hips enough that they’re pressed flush with Seth’s, and he tips his head as though to receive a kiss. 

Seth wants to smash his head into the car, he wants to knee him in the balls, he wants to punch him in the face, he wants to fuck him so hard that he can’t see straight. 

“Why are you doing this?” Seth asks, shoving Ambrose against the car harder. “What’s the point? What’s the fucking point?”

“You’re asking the wrong questions.” Ambrose licks his lips, and smiles when Seth’s eyes are drawn there. “Why not? Why not do this?”

“You got what you wanted, I lost. I lost my title. You win or whatever, okay? I lose and you win.” Seth shakes his head, stepping back and then pushing Ambrose out of the way so that he can unlock his car. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

“And you’re still so wrong!” Ambrose’s voice rises suddenly, angry where he was mocking before. “How are you still so wrong? What’s it like, being so wrong all the time?”

“Fuck off,” Seth spits, yanking one of the back doors open so he can shove his bag in the footwell.

“Pay attention to me!” Ambrose shouts at him, like a child throwing a tantrum. “Why won’t you just pay attention to me and none of this would have to happen!”

“What are you, eight?” Seth shoves his hair out of his face as he turns back to Ambrose, red-faced and frowning, arms folded across his chest. “What are you even talking about?”

Ambrose’s hands are cold where they settle on either side of Seth’s neck, and his eyes are wide and blue. On anybody else, Seth might think they were pretty. He’s deceptively gentle as he leans in and kisses Seth. Seth’s all ready to push him away, sick and tired of his stupid mind games, but the kiss doesn’t last long enough. It’s just a press of lips and that’s it.

“I just wanted to get your attention,” Ambrose insists, his thumbs tucked underneath Seth’s jaw. “To make sure you don’t forget about me.”

“You’re crazy,” Seth says, the words faint with disbelief. “You’re out of your goddamn mind.”

“You’re not allowed to forget about me, Seth.” Ambrose’s voice is rising again, and without even thinking about it, Seth puts a hand on his hip. That calms him down, apparently, because his volume’s back to normal when he keeps talking. “Everyone forgets about me, but you’re different. You’re special. You beat me.”

“That’s not the first time someone’s beat you,” Seth says suspiciously.

Ambrose frowns at him like Seth’s not understanding some important part of this conversation. “It’s the first time it mattered.”

“Wow, being full of shit just comes naturally to you, doesn’t it?” Seth shakes his head again, or tries to. Ambrose’s hands are in the way. “Have you ever been honest a day in your life?”

“If you can name one fucking lie that’s ever come out of my mouth when I’ve been talking to you, I’ll leave you alone. I’ll walk away.” Ambrose’s mouth is set, eyes on Seth’s. “Name one lie and I’ll go. I’ll start bothering someone else.”

Try as he might, Seth can’t. Ambrose even told him he was going to get the first fall in their thirty minute match a few weeks ago. He’s an asshole, and he’s insulted, he’s bothered, he’s schemed, but he hasn’t lied. Not to Seth’s face, at least.

Ambrose kisses him again and Seth still doesn’t stop him even though he should. This one’s not soft or gentle, it’s Ambrose’s lips and tongue and the occasional sting of his teeth, one hand in Seth’s hair and the other sliding down his arm. It’s more familiar than the first one and part of Seth wants to sink into it because at least he recognizes Ambrose when he’s violence instead of sweetness.

“Get in the car,” Seth mutters. He’s not doing this (whatever this is) out in the open in the parking lot when the show’s probably over soon and people will be starting to leave. The door’s still open and Ambrose isn’t moving fast enough for Seth’s liking, so he just gets a hand in Ambrose’s collar and shoves him into the backseat of the car.

“Pushy,” Ambrose comments. He doesn’t look very upset about it. Actually, he just reclines with his head pillowed on his own arms, his feet dangling out the open door. All limbs, is Ambrose. It’s more obvious when he’s in his trunks. “You’re still angry about me interrupting your match,” he observes.

“Yeah, I’m a little pissed off about that, still,” Seth says, feeling another flare of irritation at how Ambrose can say that so calmly, like he didn’t just cost Seth his title, like Seth is overreacting somehow.

He ducks into the car and grunts when Ambrose’s stupidly long legs wrap around his waist and force him down over him, hips to hips, though Seth manages to catch himself in time to keep from falling face first onto Ambrose. At least Ambrose doesn’t keep his legs there, instead settling one foot on the seat while his other leg drops down into the footwell. He looks up at Seth with raised eyebrows.

“You might wanna close the door,” he observes. “Unless you wanna give ol’ Husky a show.”

Seth’s head whips around to look out into the parking lot, his heart pounding, but there’s nobody there. Ambrose is laughing, under his breath, Seth can feel it in the shake of his thighs.

“Just wanna keep you on your toes,” he says. He switches between moods so fast that it’s impossible to keep up, from sweet to angry to weirdly seductive to amused and everything in between. It makes Seth’s head spin.

He reaches back and yanks the door shut behind him. He’s not surprised that he’s a little dizzy; there’s something about Ambrose that gets him from numb rage to semi-hard in record time. At least he’s not the only one. Their hips are shoved together in the tiny space and Ambrose is just as happy to be here as parts of Seth are.

“Why’d you do it?” Seth asks. Ambrose’s shirt has risen up with the lift of his arms, and Seth slides his hands underneath it. Maybe if he’s being distracted, Ambrose’ll be straightforward instead of dancing around the question. “Why’d you cost me my match?”

“Mm,” replies Ambrose, his eyes on Seth’s hands rather than his face. He’s worrying his lower lip with his teeth, and his hips move in tiny increments against Seth’s. 

Seth, after a moment of thought, gives Ambrose’s nipple a pinch. He can play games just as well as Dean Ambrose can. “Focus,” he says. “Why’d you cost me my match?”

With a blink, Ambrose’s gaze unfogs. He lets his head drop back against the seat, and his hands move to Seth’s wrists. He doesn’t move Seth’s hands, just settles his own on top. “You’re too good for it,” he says. “That title. You should be going for the big one.”

“Didn’t you want the FCW 15 title, like, last month?” Seth asks, skeptical. He’s always skeptical of what comes out of Ambrose’s mouth.

Ambrose is smiling again, his thighs tightening as he moves in a slow, filthy grind of his hips against Seth’s. “I wanted to wrestle you, and you were the FCW 15 champion,” he says.

“Bullshit,” Seth mutters. It’s easy enough to read between the lines, and he doesn’t believe that for a second.

Ambrose has the nerve to look hurt, even as he’s sliding his hands up Seth’s arms, thumbs tucking into the sides of his jacket and pushing it back off his shoulders. Seth takes it off the rest of the way. It’s too hot to wear it in here, anyway, even if outside the car the cold chill of the nearly-November night is upon them.

“I told you, I don’t lie to you.” Ambrose pushes himself up after a struggle, bracing himself on his hands and finding Seth’s mouth for another kiss. “You bring out the best in me.”

“If this is your best,” says Seth, mumbled as Ambrose doesn’t bother to stop kissing him, “I’d hate to see your worst.”

“Hope you never have to,” Ambrose says, hooking two fingers into the collar of Seth’s t-shirt and pulling him down as he leans back, until they’re pressed together chest-to-chest as well as hips-to-hips. The friction is subtle, but Ambrose keeps moving up against him, in shifts that would seem like he’s just trying to seem comfortable, except for how rhythmic it is.

Seth has no idea what he’s doing. He’s still angry, so angry, because that title was his, and he was proud to represent the company by holding it, and Ambrose took it from him just as surely as if he’d been the other participant in the match. And he knows he can get it back – knows he can beat Damien Sandow, just like he knows he can beat anybody else (except, sometimes, the guy underneath him) – but it’s the principle of the thing. It was his title and Ambrose made it not his anymore.

But even with all that, he can’t bring himself to push Ambrose out of his car and just leave. He can’t do it, and it’s stupid that he can’t do it, but he can’t.

“You’re thinking about it too hard,” Ambrose says. He’s watching Seth very closely, one hand moving in a seemingly absent motion, the backs of his fingers stroking Seth’s side over his shirt. “It’s not complicated. Don’t overthink it.”

“I’m not thinking at all,” Seth mutters, huffing a laugh with no amusement in it. “Obviously.”

Ambrose actually rolls his eyes at him. “I know you’re not this fucking uptight all the time. Look, you can think you hate me, or whatever, if that’s what helps you sleep at night—“ arrogant prick; Seth wants to fuck the backtalk right out of him, and that scares him a little, “—but we’re adults, we both clearly wanna do this, it’d be fucking stupid not to do it because you’re caught up in the bullshit.” He grinds up against Seth again, his hand tucking under Seth’s shirt to span across his ribs. “It doesn’t have to mean anything you don’t want it to.”

He kisses Seth’s neck, and then where it curves into his shoulder, he bites him. Not hard enough that Seth shoves him away, but enough that he hisses at the sting. Alternating between pleasure and pain seems kind of like Ambrose’s thing.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Seth says. He twists his head to find Ambrose’s mouth, biting his lower lip like he had a few weeks ago, because Ambrose had liked it, then, and he still likes it now, his mouth opening in a groan that Seth feels throughout his bones. 

“Not a damn thing,” Ambrose agrees. There’s something off in his tone, something breathless and cut-off, but it doesn’t matter what it is because Seth doesn’t have to understand Ambrose to get off with him.

It’s odd that he’s been in this position with Ambrose often enough to know what things he likes. Seth knows that Ambrose likes an edge to his softness, likes a gentle touch to end with a pinch. It’s hot in the car now even with Ambrose’s hand pushing his shirt halfway up his back, and he’s glad he took his jacket off. 

Ambrose’s is still on even though his shirt’s shoved up underneath his armpits. Seth wonders if he’s too warm, Seth pressed so close like he is and all his clothes, for the most part, still on. If he is, he doesn’t say anything about it. 

When Ambrose shifts – an actual shift this time, Seth thinks, drawing his leg up out of the footwell and curling it over the back of Seth’s calf, something… clicks. Seth automatically adjusts his balance but to do that it means he has to lean with his hips to adjust his center of gravity, and it’s only when Ambrose makes a strangled moaning noise that Seth realizes the position they’re in now.

Most of Ambrose’s weight is balancing on his upper back, and Seth’s hips are pinning his down in a way that’s like, it’s like Seth’s fucking him but all their clothes are still on. 

“Just—just—“ Ambrose is fumbling for words and there’s a part of Seth that finds itself unbearably smug at the thought that he caused it. On a whim, he curls his hand underneath the bend of Ambrose’s knee and pushes it back. It means his hips shove down even harder and Ambrose makes one of those choked-off sounds again, only this one sounds a lot like he’s saying, “ _please_ ,” and, well, Seth doesn’t want to think too hard about why that turns him on as much as it does.

“Yeah?” he asks, the word coming out like a gasp, and he’s moving like they’re screwing, without even thinking about it, a rhythmic rocking of his hips against Ambrose’s. Ambrose’s head is tilted back, his neck pale and vulnerable and Seth wants to bite it, wants to see if Ambrose is far gone enough yet that it’d make him come just like that, right in his jeans.

He wonders what it’d be like to do this with their clothes off. Maybe in a bed instead of in a locker room or in his car, which is going to smell like sweat and sex until he gets a chance to air it out. Ambrose told him that he’d let Seth fuck him someday, and that it’d be the best lay Seth ever had.

Seth doesn’t doubt that, not with how much chemistry they have in and out of the ring. He might not like admitting it to himself, but they’re good against each other whether they’re wrestling or exchanging messy handjobs. 

No use thinking about that, though, not when he’s got better things to think about, like the way Ambrose is pressing back against him with increasing urgency, his eyes closed. Maybe he’s thinking about what it’d be like if they were really fucking, too.

Seth wants to wreck him, to ruin him in more ways than one. He can’t help it anymore; he dips his head to bite Ambrose’s neck, hard enough that he’s pretty sure he’ll have a hickey there. Seth’s never been one to do things halfway, and he’s not leaving a halfhearted hickey on Ambrose, so he keeps his mouth where it is even as Ambrose practically claws down his side, muffled swears spilling from his mouth.

“Kiss me, fucking kiss me,” Ambrose hisses. It’s not much of a hardship to move his mouth the six inches to Ambrose’s, to let Ambrose crane up into the kiss, uncoordinated and frantic, like Ambrose is a bomb ready to explode.

Seth knows what’s happening when Ambrose’s leg tightens around his waist again, and he doesn’t back off even though Ambrose is muttering into his mouth, nonsensical mumbles between moans as he jerks, moves in twitching ruts against Seth. Ambrose almost bites his tongue off.

He doesn’t argue when Ambrose’s hand snakes into his sweatpants to rub him off, what would seem like an automatic motion when Ambrose is blinking at him, shell-shocked, his mouth still open. Seth grinds against Ambrose’s palm like a teenager getting his first handie, and it’s one of the best orgasms he’s ever had.

That seems like another thing Ambrose is good at, not that Seth will ever tell him. He probably knows already, anyway.

The windows are steamed up like a movie cliché and Seth is sticky, sweaty, and still angry. But Ambrose has a blooming bruise on the side of his neck and even if Seth didn’t punch it there, he put it there. That’ll have to be enough, for now. Until he can get another match against the bastard.

“When’s your birthday?” he asks. Even as he’s saying it, he has no idea where it came from. He doesn’t care when Ambrose’s birthday is, but—

It caught Ambrose off guard. He’s frowning, still short of breath, a wrinkle between his eyebrows.

“December,” he says slowly, suspiciously, like he thinks there’s some ulterior motive here. If there is, it’s one Seth doesn’t even know he has. “Why?”

“What year?” he asks insistently.

“Why?” Ambrose asks again, his mouth twisting in the sullen half-pout that makes Seth want to hit him again. “December of ’85.”

He answered anyway, without waiting to find out why Seth wanted to know. Something about that makes him feel weird.

“No reason,” he mutters. “You’re older than me.”

“By like six months or something,” Ambrose scoffs, but Seth pushes himself up where he’d been not-quite-resting on Ambrose and frowns right back at him.

“How did you know that?” he asks, unsure of whether he should be creeped out or kind of impressed at the thoroughness of Ambrose’s research.

“Public record, isn’t it?” Ambrose shrugs. “Asked the office for your tapes and stuff to do some scouting. Never know what information might come in handy.”

“You’re a freak,” Seth tells him. It’s less scornful and more bewildered than he’d like, but then, Ambrose is more confusing than he is annoying, sometimes.

“Professionally.” Ambrose shrugs again, and then wrinkles his nose, adjusting himself through his jeans. “Ah, don’t s’pose you’ve got, like, a towel or something?”

“Maybe,” mutters Seth, twisting and turning until he can reach his bag in the footwell. He hefts it up and drops it on Ambrose’s chest just to hear him grunt. He mostly has workout clothes and protein bars, but in the bottom is the towel he keeps on him when he needs to shower at the arena. It’s wrinkled, but he doubts that’ll matter. 

He offers it to Ambrose who takes it, absently nibbling at the thumbnail of his right hand. Or – no, he’s not, he’s sucking on it, because he just got Seth off with that hand and so there’s spunk smeared between his fingers and over his palm, and he’s licking it off like that’s just a thing that people do, a thing that happens.

“Thanks,” Ambrose says as he undoes the fastening of his jeans with no shame. Even though it’s not like Seth’s never seen Ambrose’s dick before, he averts his eyes, dropping his bag over into the passenger’s seat. 

He’s never sure what to say after they do this. He’s never been the type of person to have casual sex with anybody. He’s had girlfriends, all relationships that lasted over a year – one boyfriend when he was seventeen that lasted almost nine months. But Ambrose isn’t his boyfriend, and he’s definitely not his girlfriend. He’s not anything.

“You’re overthinking again,” Ambrose says in a sing-song voice. “Don’t make it a thing. It’s not a thing.”

“I know it’s not a thing,” Seth snaps, grabbing his jacket and shoving it on top of his bag. He’s still too warm. “I’m not thinking anything. You don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

Ambrose smiles. It’s infuriating. “I think I know you better than you think I do,” he says. Calm. Assured.

“Oh, really.” It’s not a question. “What am I thinking right now, then?”

Ambrose drops the towel onto the floor of his car. Seth makes a note in his head to pick that up and wash it later. “You’re about to kick me out of your car,” he sings, zipping his pants. “Because you’re worried I do actually know you that well and it scares you. And it should.” 

“Get out of my car.” Seth rolls his eyes. He knows already that Ambrose is fucking out of his mind, but there are only so many times you can see a guy’s O-face before he just stops being as intimidating as he wants to be. “And not because that’s what I was thinking. Because you’re annoying and you cost me my title and I don’t like you.”

“How will I ever go on?” Ambrose comments, droll, like he wasn’t shouting at Seth half an hour ago to pay attention to him.

“Out,” Seth says firmly. He reaches behind him to open the door and back himself out of the car, and Ambrose, to his credit, doesn’t dawdle. He rolls to his feet and stretches his arms above his head, his limbs loose and relaxed. His shirt’s still bunched up like a crop-top, but as Seth watches, he shimmies it back down.

Ambrose sketches out a mocking bow. “Always a pleasure,” he murmurs. His jaw moves in an odd way and then Seth realizes that somehow he’s chewing gum. Seth has no idea where it came from.

“I’m sure I’ll see you next week.” Seth’s exhausted. He’s exhausted and he wants to go back to his hotel room and sleep long enough that he forgets he’s not FCW 15 champion anymore.

The smile Ambrose gives him in return is weird. “You’re gonna have to wait your turn if you want a revenge match,” he comments, tucking his hands into his pockets.

“And why’s that?” asks Seth. “Did you piss somebody else off?”

“I’m hurt,” Ambrose says, and his voice lilts in a way that makes Seth shiver. He could blame it on the cold, but he knows that’s not it. Ambrose might not intimidate him much anymore, but sometimes, sometimes, he talks in this way that makes it clear he’s got a few stones loose in his head. “By your lack of faith in me. It just so happens that William Regal might want a match against me.”

“Why might he want that?”

Ambrose shrugs yet again. “I might’ve jumped him earlier. Might’ve punched him in the head a couple times.”

“I thought what we had was special,” Seth quips, palming his car keys. “You’re flirting with Regal now?”

He feels oddly vindicated when Ambrose laughs, an ordinary laugh and not one of his disturbing cackly chuckles. It’s kind of nice, actually, quiet and throaty. “Oh, darling, you know you’re the only one for me.”

He sketches out a salute and then, hands back in his pockets, ambles away, no doubt to wreak more havoc and frighten small children.

Seth shakes his head and gets into the driver’s seat. He’s due a hot shower and a nice long mope. Ambrose-free.

\--

Seth really has no need to watch the main event. He’s not going to face William Regal at any point in the future, and he’s faced Ambrose enough that he doesn’t really need to scout him anymore. Still, it never hurts to keep tabs on someone who’s your opponent as often as Ambrose is, or that’s what Seth tells himself as he settles in to watch the match.

Ambrose looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world, twirling for the cameras, a smile on his face, that glint in his eyes that scares so many people, but Seth knows he’s not taking this lightly. You can’t underestimate an opponent like Regal. The man’s a master of a lot of things and he’s good at hurting people. Then again, so is Ambrose.

To be honest, there’s more back-and-forth than Seth might’ve expected. Regal has a size advantage, sure, and an experience advantage, but they have similar builds, similar skillsets. That’s one of the reasons Regal’s been so intrigued by Ambrose, he knows. He never shuts up about it on commentary.

Sure, Regal’s good, but Ambrose is a spectacular wrestler; there’s never been any doubt about that. It’s one of the reasons Seth gets angry when Ambrose cheats to win a match or gets himself disqualified – he’s good, amazing, one of the best wrestlers Seth’s ever been across from in the ring. He doesn’t need to cheat to win.

It’s the little things, though. Ambrose makes tiny mistakes that an ordinary wrestler wouldn’t pick up on, but William Regal’s been wrestling for the better part of thirty years and he has an eye for weakness, however miniscule.

Seth doesn’t realize what he’s doing until Ambrose’s arm is trapped between the ring post and the steel steps and he’s muttering under his breath, “Come on, come on.” Apparently his mind’s decided he’s rooting for Ambrose without his permission.

Even then, when Ambrose’s arm is dangling limply from his shoulder, Seth still thinks he’ll be able to pull it out. People have pinned Ambrose, of course, but it’s happened rarely enough, Ambrose is _good_ enough that Seth thinks he’ll be able to do it, up until Regal bursts out of the corner and his knee cracks against Ambrose’s temple.

He winces. Ambrose probably has a concussion from that, unless he’s real lucky. That’s a brutal move and Regal meant it to be. It gets him the pin, and Seth guesses that’s what matters at the end of the day. He got the pin.

After the match, Ambrose doesn’t slink away like others might. Seth’s pretty sure Ambrose hasn’t backed off when he should’ve ever, in his life. Pushing farther than he should is just part of the guy’s DNA.

He can’t hear what he and Regal are saying to each other, but that creepy grin is back on Ambrose’s face, so Seth’s kind of glad that the speakers aren’t picking it up.

Gathering his towel (freshly cleaned and stuffed back into his bag), he heads off to get a shower before he heads back to his hotel room. The water pressure there isn’t the greatest and he’s already here, anyway.

He ties his hair back and shoulders his bag once he’s done and dressed, vaguely surprised that there’s nobody waiting for him in his locker room. It’s kind of his and Ambrose’s _thing_ as of late, meetings in his locker room, but the room’s as empty as it was when he left it.

Maybe Ambrose is in Regal’s locker room. Maybe it’s something he tries on with all his opponents.

Seth slams the door on that thought before it can develop any further. He doesn’t want to know, and even if he did know, he wouldn’t care.

It turns out that Ambrose isn’t in Regal’s locker room, propositioning him or otherwise. That becomes abundantly clear the closer Seth gets to his car, and by the time he unlocks it and sits down, he’s positive of it.

“You look like shit,” Seth mutters as he shoves his bag into the backseat. “I locked my car before I went inside,” he says pointedly.

From the passenger’s seat, Ambrose shrugs, a tightly wound ball of tension and anger – barely-suppressed if the look on his face is any indication.

He’s clutching his arm to his chest, fingers tapping out the rhythm to a song that’s in his head. Seth nods toward it as he turns the key in his ignition. He doesn’t know what Ambrose is doing here, but it’s November and at night it’s cold enough that he’d rather have the heat on.

“You put ice on that yet?” he asks.

Ambrose doesn’t reply for a long moment, and then he shrugs again. “Didn’t want to stick around long enough,” he mutters. He’s not smiling now, putting on the crazy face like he was in front of everyone earlier.

Seth sighs. He shouldn’t have watched the match. He wouldn’t have given a shit if he hadn’t seen the way Ambrose’s face had contorted as his arm had been shoved between the pole and the steps.

“Which hotel are you staying at?” he asks, reluctant. Ambrose’s bag is on top of his feet in the footwell when Seth glances down. Good. “Same one as the rest of the roster?”

“Yeah.” Ambrose draws it out like a question, and when Seth looks at him, he seems confused. “Why?”

Seth backs out of his parking space. “You need to put ice on your arm,” he says to avoid the question. “It’s gotta kill by now.”

“You worrying about little ol’ me?” There’s a smirk on Ambrose’s face now; a ghost of his usual one, but Seth still likes it better than despair. He doesn’t know what to do with despair. He knows how to act when Ambrose is an asshole.

“In your dreams,” Seth snaps. “I haven’t gotten back at you for costing me my title yet. Can’t wrestle if your arm’s fucked.”

“You care what happens to me,” Ambrose taunts. “You wanna kiss it better?”

“You want me to punch you in the face again?” Seth replies. Good, this is good, he knows this.

Ambrose is smiling to himself, but he doesn’t reply until Seth’s pulling into the parking lot of the hotel. Even then, it seems like a non sequitur.

“I thought I could beat him, you know?” Ambrose says. “I was sure I could beat him.”

“Well, he’s been doing this a long time,” Seth mutters, looking around for a parking spot. It’s always crowded around this time. “Nothing against you if you couldn’t pull it off this time.”

“But it is,” Ambrose insists. “It is. Because I _know_ I can beat him. And he made me look like a – like a punk kid trying to prove a point. I’m just as good as he is. I can beat him.”

“So why didn’t you?” There’s a million answers, all valid: It was an off night; he made a few stupid mistakes; he underestimated his opponent. Any of them would work and any could be true.

Ambrose shakes his head. “Don’t know,” he murmurs. But he looks contemplative now instead of upset. “I think he almost broke my arm.” Another comment that seems out of nowhere but probably isn’t.

“Ice,” Seth says firmly. He nods to himself, finally parking the car. “You should probably get checked out by somebody.”

“You offering?” Ambrose slides him a smile, but still seems preoccupied. “You’re pretty good at checking me out, Seth.”

“Shut up.” Seth rolls his eyes and grabs his bag from the back before he gets out of the car. Ambrose gets out on the other side, his own bag dangling from his good hand as his arm remains curled against his chest. He makes it look, somehow, like that’s just the way he carries himself. If Seth didn’t know better, and wasn’t paying attention, he might not even be able to tell Ambrose was injured at all.

Part of him wants to ask how he does it, but the other part doesn’t want to give Ambrose any kind of compliment.

“You’re gonna be able to get to your room okay, right?” Seth asks, shouldering his gear. “You haven’t screwed up either of your legs?”

“Nah.” Ambrose laughs to himself at a joke Seth’s not privy to. “Nah, I’m good.” He pauses and then, almost hesitantly, says, “Thanks.”

“Let’s not ever do it again,” Seth replies, unsure of how to leave this conversation. ‘Bye’ seems too casual, ‘see you later’ not really suiting either. In the end, he just gestures in a wave with his keys that Ambrose seems to find infinitely amusing and heads toward his room at a quick walk.

He’s nearly to the door of his room, since they’re laid out in a strip down directly next to the parking lot rather than in vertical floors, when he hears the slap of shoes on asphalt. He’s prepared for an attack and is bracing to fight back, cursing himself for turning his back on Ambrose, when the hand touches his shoulder with less force than he’s expecting.

“Hey,” says Ambrose, a little breathless. “Almost forgot.”

He kisses Seth right there in the parking lot, hard and fast, his good hand curled behind Seth’s neck while the other one is pressed between them. Seth’s still so braced for impact that he barely has a chance to kiss back before Ambrose is moving away, and then he just has a second to wonder, flummoxed, why his first reaction was to kiss back rather than to push Ambrose away before Ambrose is grinning at him.

“Tradition,” he says to explain himself. “Thanks again for the ride.”

And then he’s sashaying off toward the alcove where Seth knows the ice machine is, a renewed pep in his step.

Seth stands there, off his game for a second. He shakes his head a little and shoves a hand through his hair. Fucking Dean Ambrose. Every time Seth thinks he might’ve figured him out a little more, he’s proven wrong.

When he turns to actually go in his room, his stomach flips as he notices he’s not the only person standing outside their room. Johnny Curtis has an ice bucket in his hand and he’s looking from Seth to the alcove and back again.

Seth opens his mouth and Johnny holds his hands up to halt his words.

“I don’t care, I don’t wanna know, I saw nothing,” he says quickly before he steps back into his room and closes the door.

Sighing, Seth finally unlocks his door and steps into it. Home sweet home or whatever. God, he needs a nap. And maybe a beer.

\--

By the time the next show rolls around, Seth’s ready for his rematch. He knows he can take out Sandow under normal conditions, when some crazy guy isn’t swooping in to screw him over. He doesn’t even know if Ambrose is here tonight. He hasn’t seen him yet, and if he hasn’t been cleared to compete, he might not be there at all. No point.

Good. Seth hopes he’s not there. One less person to screw him over. 

Except, of course, there are endless numbers of people ready to screw him over. He’d thought that he was pretty well liked by the rest of the locker room, but he’s on his way to the ring to get his title back when he’s blindsided from behind, the hissed words in a language he doesn’t understand letting him know it’s Antonio Cesaro lifting him up and slamming him down on the ring steps.

He knows it’s bad the second it happens. Pain sears up his leg, caught between the ring pole and the steel steps. Just like Ambrose’s arm, last week, only that had been _during_ a match, not right before he was meant to compete in one.

The referees usher Cesaro away after that, but the damage is done. Seth can’t even stand, though he tries, using the same ring steps that caused the damage to try and heft himself up until some of the guys from the back (so he _does_ still have people who like him; that’s nice) crowd around him. They try and help him to the back, but Seth has a match, and he can’t stand.

Sandow’s voice is grating as ever when he gets a microphone in his hand to announce with glee that Seth signed a contract to compete in this match and so he _has_ to compete. Johnny’s squawking in outrage where Seth’s arm is slung over his shoulder.

A low voice from next to him mutters, “Bullshit,” with obvious annoyance. Seth doesn’t recognize it, but he agrees with the sentiment. “Likes to hear himself talk.”

Seth looks over to see who it is. Leakee. Been around about a year, long enough that Seth recognizes his face but not his voice. He hasn’t done much talking, preferring to let his in-ring work speak for him. He’s good. Seth has no doubt they’ll have a string of pretty good matches down the road.

“You can’t do it, man,” Johnny says in his ear. 

“I forfeit the match if I don’t,” Seth mumbles back, clutching his leg and glaring toward the ring.

“You forfeit the match if you do,” insists Leakee. That can’t be his real name. Seth’ll find out what it is some other time. “You can barely stand. Live to fight another day.”

“I’m not gonna forfeit the match,” Seth says, and he pushes the others away as he hobbles toward the ring, Sandow smirking inside. Maybe he can barely stand, but he doesn’t need to stand to kick Sandow in the back of the head. Johnny shouts at him the whole way, but he’ll make it up to him later.

A fifteen minute match on one leg to get his title back. He’ll do his best. The four guys who came out to help him stay around ringside: CJ, Donny, Johnny, and Leakee. He appreciates it. Even if they can’t do anything in the ring, at least there won’t be any surprise interferences this week.

He scores a fall within the first two minutes. Sandow was working his leg the whole time, and the pain is nearly unbearable, but he manages to score a pin. He can build on that.

Except now he’s just pissed Sandow off. Sandow refocuses on Seth’s leg, all manner of submissions and hits that send his knee into agony, until he gets him in a half Boston crab that nearly makes Seth black out. Actually, he might’ve blacked out, because the next thing he knows, the announcer’s voice is saying the score’s tied.

He hates tapping out. He hates submitting. It’s somehow worse than getting pinned. You _choose_ to tap out. You give up. Seth hates giving up. Did he? Did he tap out? He can’t remember. It’s hard to remember anything but how much his knee hurts.

It feels like his leg’s going to fall off. If it did, they’d probably give Sandow another fall.

He tries. He tries so fucking hard. By the time they announce that there’s one minute remaining, he’s started to understand why Ambrose was determined to do whatever it took to win their matches, because the score’s tied, and if it’s a draw, the champion wins. It’s not so nice being on the other side of that.

And then it happens: Sandow makes a mistake. Just one, overconfident as he goes for the half Boston crab again, Seth manages to reverse it into a pin. His second fall to Sandow’s one, and half a second after the referee’s hand hits the match for the three-count, the timer runs out. He won his title back.

There’s a blur of back pats and cheering and his music playing and someone ruffles his hair and someone else puts the medal around his neck and it all comes tumbling down.

The referee is saying the time expired before the ref’s hand hit the mat for the three. The ring announcer confirms it: Sandow’s still the champion.

Sandow grabs the medal and leaves the ring before Seth can do anything about it. He’s numb and angry and his leg still really fucking hurts, and he doesn’t have a single thing to show for it. He grabs the referee’s shirt before Johnny pulls him back, muttering that he needs to calm down. He sounds just as angry as Seth is, but he’s right. Last week they banned Husky and Richie from FCW for putting their hands on the officials.

Cesaro comes out after, to say some shit about how he hates everybody, Americans and people who use Twitter and Seth especially. Probably because he’s both. He doesn’t know. He does know that he wants Cesaro, now, he wants his head on a fucking spike, and it’s only the guys holding him back that keeps him from diving at Cesaro, bad leg or no.

So Cesaro’s gone once he’s finished with Seth. Good riddance. He won’t be missed, especially not by him.

He hobbles his way to the back with a little help, Johnny muttering obscenities the whole way, Leakee a welcome silence among the constant chatter of Donny and CJ. 

“I kinda wanna be alone,” Seth mutters, once they arrive outside his locker room. “Please,” he adds when Johnny looks likely to protest.

Reluctantly, Johnny stands down, letting Seth stand on his own. “I’ll bring you ice later,” he insists before he takes off at a jog, looking back over his shoulder before he turns the corner. CJ and Donny have already dispersed, which means it’s just Leakee and him. Weird, considering they don’t actually know each other.

“Hey,” Seth says. Leakee looks surprised to be addressed. Seth’s surprised to have addressed him. “What’s your name? Like, your actual name.”

Leakee remains silent for a moment, then dips his head. “Roman,” he says, his voice as low and smooth as it had been when they were out by the ring. “Roman Reigns.”

“Thanks for the backup,” Seth says, offering his hand. Leakee – Roman – looks at it for a moment before he shakes it. “I appreciate it.”

Roman gives him a smile, though his brow is still furrowed like he’s not sure why Seth’s thanking him. “He attacked you from behind,” he says. “There’s no honor in that.”

“Not a lot of honor in him.” Seth shakes his head and tries to put some weight on his leg. Nope, not happening right now. 

“As far as I can tell, you’re right about that,” Roman says. He nods at Seth again. “I’m sure we’ll cross paths again. Take care of that leg.”

To the point, dismissing himself because he knows Seth would rather not have anybody else around right now. Seth likes that. “Do my best,” he murmurs as Roman heads down the hallway. He’s an odd duck. Seth’ll have to keep an eye on him.

Seth shoves open the door to his locker room, planning on maybe stretching his leg out as best as he can, maybe drowning himself in the shower, but he’s not going to get to do either of those things, because Dean Ambrose is in his locker room.

“Bad time?” Ambrose comments lightly, legs propped on a folding chair as he eyes Seth from head to toe. He looks perfectly normal, as normal as Ambrose ever looks. “How’s the leg?”

“Guess.” Seth packs as much vitriol as he can into the one word, putting as little weight onto his foot as he can while he makes his way to one of the other chairs in the room. He has no idea why there are so many chairs, considering it’s his room and the only other person who’s ever in it is Johnny, sometimes, and apparently Ambrose.

There’s a long enough pause that Seth looks up to gauge Ambrose’s reaction. He’s frowning, watching Seth. “That bad?”

“I lost,” Seth grunts. “It’d probably hurt less if I hadn’t lost.”

“Technically, you just didn’t win,” Ambrose points out. He holds his hands up in placation when Seth growls at him. “Tryin’ to look on the bright side of things. At least it wasn’t my fault this time?”

“Why are you here, anyway?” asks Seth, propping his leg up on another chair and working to get his kickpad and boot off. He already knows it’s bad, but he’s hoping that with ice and wrapping it, he’ll still be medically cleared to compete. Sandow was relentless in the match, and the sharp, stinging pain is only made worse once he gets his gear off.

“I don’t have a match tonight,” Ambrose mutters. Seth had forgotten he’d even asked a question. “You’re the only person I can halfway stand in this place. Thought I’d come keep you company.”

Carefully, Seth bends his knee toward him and then fully extends it, wincing. “I really don’t like Antonio Cesaro,” he mumbles. 

“Does anybody?” Ambrose leans forward and Seth doesn’t bother to move as he touches Seth’s now-bare knee. “Looks nasty. Can you even walk?”

“I got here, didn’t I?” Seth asks waspishly, batting Ambrose’s hand away. “It’s fine. And if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t tell you.”

Even as he says it, he knows it’s not quite true. Like any wrestler, Ambrose knows to focus on the weakest part of his opponent, as he had in their Super Eight qualifying match. But this isn’t quite a match, and – and even if Seth doesn’t feel like Ambrose owes him anything, they’re both aware that Seth didn’t have to give him a ride last week. He’d known Ambrose’s arm was fucked and he hadn’t done anything to injure it farther.

Something Roman had said resonates in Seth’s head: There’s no honor in attacking from behind. Maybe, even after everything, there’s some part of Ambrose that knows the meaning of honor.

“Fair,” Ambrose says after a moment. He’s still touching Seth’s knee.

Seth squints at him, wondering if his arm might actually be the reason Ambrose isn’t competing tonight. He wouldn’t mention it, at least not outright, Seth doesn’t think, but he’d seen the match. There’s no way he can be at 100% after that.

“You were limping when you came in,” Ambrose says. His thumb is rubbing in small circles on the side of Seth’s leg and it doesn’t feel… _bad_. Seth should tell him to stop, but he doesn’t. “You gonna be able to drive?”

“I’ll do what I have to,” Seth murmurs. He’s driven a hundred miles with broken ribs before. He can handle the three miles back to the hotel.

Ambrose smiles at him and then pats his thigh. “Nah,” he says.

Seth frowns. “Excuse me?” He hopes he’s managing more menace than flat confusion, but he’s never really been good at menacing.

“I said ‘Nah,’” Ambrose repeats a little louder, speaking slowly. God, Seth would punch him if he wasn’t already down a wheel. “You’re here, I’m here. I don’t have anything else to do. We’re going to the same place anyway. I’ll drive you back to the hotel.”

“Uh, no,” says Seth. “Definitely not. I do not trust you behind the wheel of a car.”

“My driving record is impeccable, prettyboy. I don’t got all that hair to get in my face and obscure my vision.” Ambrose grins at him. “Besides. I owe you.”

“You really, really don’t,” Seth says, deciding to ignore everything else Ambrose said, for his own health. “I’ll let you off free.”

“Nope,” Ambrose replies, cheerful. He squeezes Seth’s thigh and then stands, holding up a hand. It takes a moment for Seth to realize what he’s holding. Those are Seth’s keys.

“Hey!” he says, outraged. Ambrose cuts him off before he can say anything else.

“I figured you’d be a little stubborn about this,” he says in placation. “So I took the liberty of taking a few necessary precautions, just in case.”

“Give me my keys back,” Seth demands, hand outstretched. Ambrose doesn’t, of course. He just tucks his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans.

“I’ll be waiting by the car,” he says in that annoying singsong voice, practically skipping to the door. Seth, on his bum leg, can only watch, furious. “I’ll let you get dressed, sweetie. Unless,” he says with a leer, “you think you’ll need any help?”

He darts out the door before Seth can respond, and Seth can hear his laughter as he moves down the hallway.

By the time he manages to get dressed, he’s kind of expecting Ambrose to have just stolen his car. Of course, they’re staying in the same place, so it’d be pretty stupid of him, and Ambrose is one of the least stupid people Seth has ever met; he’ll give him credit for that.

Ambrose is still there, though. Leaning against the driver’s side door, his (formerly? Currently?) bad arm tucked up against his chest as he nibbles on the end of his thumb. He looks as casual as can be. If Seth didn’t know any better, he’d think that was Ambrose’s car and he was just waiting to give someone else a ride.

Seth keeps his limp as subtle as he can as he heads in that direction. “Give me my keys,” he demands again.

“Good, you’re here!” Ambrose replies, nodding his head toward the other side of the car. “Get in.”

“Give me my keys,” Seth counters.

Ambrose smiles at him, his hand curling around the curve of Seth’s neck. Seth shivers a little, and not just from the chill in the air. “I think you should get in the car,” he suggests. “Please.”

Seth narrows his eyes. Something about that sounds like a threat, even though the words are all pretty innocuous on their own. It’s a talent of Ambrose’s.

“If you crash my fucking car I will beat the shit out of you, bad leg or not,” he says.

“I’m not gonna crash your stupid car, princess,” Ambrose mutters, rolling his eyes. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a boy scout,” Seth scoffs as he makes his way to the other side of the car.

“Course I wasn’t,” replies Ambrose, jovial again as he opens the car door. “They don’t like cocksuckers.”

It’s crude, but Seth’s come to expect crude from Ambrose. He just shakes his head and stretches his leg out as much as he can once he closes the door.

Ambrose is merrily adjusting the seat, sliding it back a few inches and humming to himself. At least he’s wearing a seatbelt. Seth cinches his own, still feeling vague dread in the pit of his stomach.

“You’ve looked less scared while I’ve been punching you in the face,” Ambrose tells him. “I got my license just like anybody else. I’ll whip it out right now if you wanna see it.”

“Just drive, asshole,” Seth mutters, folding his arms across his chest. His leg is throbbing and Ambrose’s voice makes his head hurt.

Ambrose just drives. Seth was kind of expecting him to make another smart comment or six, but he falls silent and starts the car, checking behind him before he backs out.

Seth rubs his temples, leaning his head back against the head rest. So he’s coming out of this week with an injured leg and still no title. Somehow, he’s had an even worse week than he did last week, which he hadn’t known was possible.

The rest of the way back to the hotel is silent, and Seth’s grateful for that. Ambrose doesn’t even turn the radio on.

“There y’go,” Ambrose announces once the car stops moving. Seth blinks his eyes open, surprised. That didn’t take as long as he was expecting it to. “See? Was that so hard, letting somebody else do something for you?” Ambrose tosses the keys into Seth’s lap.

“You’re one to talk!” Seth snorts. He grabs the keys and shoves them into the bag at his feet.

Ambrose pushes open his door once he’s gotten his own bag from the back, nudging it closed with his hip.

“Hey,” he says before Seth can take more than two steps away from the car. He sighs and turns back, but Ambrose isn’t even looking at him, instead rummaging in his bag.

“What?” asks Seth, trying to stand so that less weight is on his leg, while at the same time trying not to be obvious that that’s what he’s doing.

Ambrose clears his throat, then grasps Seth’s hand, pressing what feels like a small bottle into it and closing Seth’s hand around it. “Take two of those,” he instructs. “You look like you could use ‘em more than me.”

The smirk he levels at Seth isn’t at full power, and he jogs off without another word (or another kiss, as the case may be.)

Seth looks down at his hand and reads the label on the bottle. It’s pretty straightforward; some kind of pain medication, probably for Ambrose’s arm. Seth guesses he must have seen someone about it after all.

“Ambrose,” he calls. He’s not expecting Ambrose to turn around, but he does, raising his eyebrows at Seth. He looks kind of embarrassed, kind of challenging. Seth hobbles the four steps to him and before Ambrose can ask him what he’s doing, Seth kisses him.

It wasn’t expected, obviously, because Ambrose makes a noise, surprised and questioning, before he settles into it. It feels good being on the other end of the equation, throwing Ambrose off-kilter for a change. Seth hopes Ambrose is wondering what game Seth is playing. Turnaround is fair play.

Ambrose blinks when Seth steps back on his good leg, caught between a smile and a frown.

“See you next week,” Seth says. With that, he turns toward his room and walks away. He doesn’t look back, but he’s pretty sure Ambrose watches him go.

\--

Even though he said he’d see Ambrose the next week, Seth’s not really expecting to be waylaid two seconds after he gets to the arena. It’s a good thing his leg’s feeling better because he stumbles as his arm is grabbed and he’s yanked into what looks like a closet.

“We need to talk,” Ambrose informs him without further ado. On Seth’s second look, it’s probably a janitor’s closet. There are mops piled in the corner.

“About what?” Seth asks, already annoyed. “You gonna steal my car again?”

“A little dramatic, but okay.” Seth notices then that Ambrose looks frazzled, biting on the edge of his thumb.

“What’s going on?” Seth asks, leaning back against the wall.

“We’re in a match tonight,” says Ambrose. Immediately, Seth’s on guard. There’s no reason an opponent in a match you’re in needs to talk before the match.

“Okay,” he says suspiciously. “Why does that mean we need to talk?”

“I’m not gonna attack you before the match,” Ambrose grumbles. “I don’t need to. I already know I can beat you.” Seth bristles, but allows Ambrose to continue. “It’s a tag match.”

Oh. That’s a little different, then. “You? Tagging with people? You don’t seem the type.”

“It wasn’t exactly my decision.” Ambrose’s eyebrows are pulled together as he looks at Seth underneath his hair. “Six-man tag. My partners are Damien Sandow and Antonio Cesaro.”

“Oh, great. Really excellent.” Seth pushes himself off the wall, debating with himself whether or not he wants to just leave now. “It’s like the trifecta of people who have screwed me over. Awesome.”

“I didn’t get to pick my partners,” Ambrose snaps. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet. “That’s not the point. Your team is you and Curtis and a partner of your choosing.”

“Is that so?” Seth asks flatly. It’s obvious, really, who the logical choice of partner would be. Who he _should_ ask to be in the match.

“I don’t have a problem being in the ring with you. I know you’re not going to back down, or go easy on me, and I’m not gonna go easy on you. I don’t expect any of that,” Ambrose says, his thumb still at his mouth. “I’ll fight you and whoever you want a thousand fucking times over. Just – just don’t pick Regal.”

And there it is, out there. Seth should’ve known that’s why Ambrose would want to talk to him.

“He’s the logical choice,” Seth says carefully, with as much neutrality as he can. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know!” It’s like the words are ripped from Ambrose’s throat. “You don’t owe me anything, and we’re not – friends, and I know that, but I’m asking you to. Don’t team with William Regal tonight.”

“What if I do?” Seth fold his arms across his chest. “Hypothetically speaking.”

“Shit, I don’t know, I guess I’ll deal with it, won’t I?” Ambrose’s eyes look from Seth’s eyes to the wall to his eyes to the door and then back to him again. “Obviously you owe me fuck-all. But I’m _asking_ you not to. And I don’t ask people for shit.”

Seth knows that. Ambrose isn’t the type. He wonders how many people have ever done anything for Dean Ambrose out of the goodness of their heart. He imagines not many.

“I’ll think about it,” he finally says. “I’m not promising anything. But I’ll think about it, I guess.”

Immediately, Ambrose releases a whoosh of air, his shoulders relaxing, his body language less defensive. Seth hadn’t realize how tightly he was wound until he wasn’t anymore.

“You’re really fucked up over him, aren’t you?” he asks, trying to make it sound like a casual inquiry.

“No.” Ambrose scowls, then makes an obvious effort to clear his expression. “No,” he repeats. “It’s complicated. I can beat him, it’s not because I think I can’t beat him,” he insists suddenly, like he thinks that’s the conclusion Seth’s come to.

“Oh, I know you can beat him,” Seth says. Ambrose was clearly not expecting that, because he stops in the middle of gearing up for a defensive strike, taken aback. “I have no doubt that you could beat William Regal.”

It’s really fun to catch Ambrose off guard. Seth should do it way more often.

“I can,” Ambrose says. It sounds like he’s caught between a question and a statement. 

Seth shrugs. “You’re just as good as he is. Weren’t you the one who told me that one match didn’t make me better than you when I beat you?”

Ambrose is looking at him like he’s just said something mindblowing. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “That’s right.”

“Well, there you go. You’ll beat him next time.” Seth pats Ambrose’s shoulder. “See you out there.”

He’s turning to leave when Ambrose presses him to the door instead and kisses him. Maybe this is just their thing now, trading insults and making out. It seems to be all they do these days. Seth remembers when his dislike of Ambrose was straightforward, without this bizarre mix of attraction and sympathy. He wishes he could just hate Ambrose, like he did when the guy got to FCW. 

Seth kisses back, giving as good as he’s getting. Ambrose might have him pressed against the door, but Seth’s not just going to lie back and think of England. He gets one hand in Ambrose’s hair and the other at his hip. The contrast of the rough denim of Ambrose’s jeans and the smooth skin of his side is jarring and dizzyingly hot. Seth’s head is spinning a little.

Ambrose keeps his forehead pressed against Seth’s even when the kiss ends, his eyes closed, breathing heavily in and out. Seth wishes he could see into Ambrose’s head to figure out what he’s thinking.

He can hear the sound Ambrose’s throat makes when he swallows, then clears his throat, stepping back.

“For luck.” The corner of Ambrose’s mouth hitches up in a smile. “You’re gonna need it. Whatever you throw at me, I’ll be ready for it.”

“Luck is for losers,” Seth replies, reaching behind him to twist the door knob. “And I’m not a loser.”

He closes the door behind him when he leaves. Silently, somehow, they’ve decided to stagger their departures. It wouldn’t do for them to be seen coming out of a closet together, after all.

It’s a good thing Ambrose found him when he did, because Johnny’s waiting for Seth at his locker room.

“How’s the leg?” is his first question after they exchange hellos. He follows Seth into his locker room. Probably their locker room, actually, considering they’re teaming tonight. “Have you seen the match listings?”

“Yeah,” Seth lies. He hasn’t, but that’s irrelevant. “You got anybody in mind for our third?”

“Even better.” Johnny looks gleeful. “I’ve got an offer. Call just came in. William Regal’s begging to be in the match.”

Shit. Seth does his best to look interested instead of annoyed. “Is he? What do you think about that?”

“What do you mean, what do I think? It’s great!” Johnny grins, obviously excited. “Did you see what he did to Ambrose two weeks ago? It’ll be amazing. I thought you’d jump at the chance.”

And the thing is, Seth _should_ be jumping at the chance. He and Johnny are good enough that even if it was just the two of them, they could probably give the other team a good fight, but if they had Regal on their side, it’d be a much more even match. They’d almost definitely win if they had Regal.

“I don’t know,” Seth finally says. “They call the guy a true villain for a reason, you know? I just don’t know if we can trust him. I’ve never teamed with him before.”

Johnny at least seems to be thinking about that. “I guess so,” he says, dubious. “But I think he hates – or whatevers, I don’t know what to call their weird obsession with each other – Ambrose more than he cares about us.”

“But if we’re gonna be teaming with him, it’s gotta be a team,” Seth says. God damn it. Apparently this is what he’s doing. “What about uh, Leakee? He got a match tonight?”

“Yeah, against Corey Graves, I think. I asked him already,” Johnny admits. “Thought it was cool of him to come out there last week.”

“It was,” Seth mutters, thinking. He snaps his fingers. “Bateman.”

“Derrick?” Johnny raises his eyebrows. “He’d be up for that, probably.”

“And you two were tag champs together, so he’s obviously good at working on a team,” Seth reasons. “See if he’s even here, would you? D’you have his number?”

“I can do you one better; I saw him in the locker room when I got here.” Johnny grins at him. “It’ll be nice to team up with him again. I’ll go see if he’s interested.”

He shoots Seth a double thumbs up and rushes off, leaving the smile to fall off Seth’s face as he sighs. What did he just do? And why the fuck did he just do it?

When he and Johnny are announced for their match, he makes sure to keep an eye on Ambrose, in the ring. Maybe it’s Seth’s imagination, or he’s being stupidly optimistic, but Ambrose doesn’t seem very buddy-buddy with his partners. Mostly, he looks ready to compete. Seth wonders how the look on his face would change if William Regal was announced as their partner.

It doesn’t. This whole time, Seth’s been second-guessing himself, wondering if he should find out how to get a hold of Regal, but Derrick’s music plays instead of the frou-frou pomp and circumstance of Regal’s, and it’s like Seth can see the tension drain from Ambrose that he wouldn’t have even known was there if he wasn’t looking for it.

Well, Seth hopes he’s happy about it, because Derrick’s good, but he’s not a master technician like Regal is, and he does his best, but he’s not a match for Ambrose. With everyone else taken out, outside the ring, Ambrose manages to get the pin on Derrick. 

Part of Seth knew it was kind of doomed from the beginning, especially since the other team wasn’t going to play fair in any way. Ambrose was telling the truth; he didn’t let up at all, fighting Seth just as well as he always does when they’re in the ring together. 

Even when Seth hated Ambrose completely, he liked being in the ring with him. They work well together. There’s a chemistry there that Seth hasn’t had with many people. It’s rare, and he has it with Ambrose. Whenever they’re in the ring together, everything just works.

When they’re out of the ring together, it’s a different story. But when it comes to wrestling people, Ambrose is one of the best opponents he’s had.

He’s expecting Ambrose to pay him a visit after the match. He’s not expecting him to knock, which is why he’s hesitant to answer the door, toweling off his shower-damp hair and cracking the door before he opens it completely. Ambrose is leaning against the opposite wall, chewing gum and keeping a watchful eye down either side of the hallway. He stands up straight when he sees Seth.

“You alone?” he asks, immediately following it up with, “Got a minute?”

“Yeah.” Seth answers both questions at once, stepping back to let Ambrose through the door. He enters quickly, which Seth appreciates. He doesn’t know what he’d do if Johnny happened by and saw Seth letting Ambrose into his locker room.

He’s thrown off, a little, because Ambrose doesn’t knock. He’s not the knocking type. He’d knocked that first week, after their second match against each other, but ever since then he’s either waltzed into Seth’s life or dragged Seth into his. He doesn’t tend to care whether Seth has a minute or not.

Ambrose’s hands are shoved into his back pockets. He’s clad again in his usual apparel when he’s outside the ring: jeans, t-shirt, jacket. Shifting from foot to foot, he actually looks nervous, too. Seth’s on guard.

“Good match,” Ambrose says out of nowhere. He’s looking at Seth, at least, though he’s a good two feet away. “I mean, we were both in it, so of course it was.”

“Probably feels better when you’re on the winning team,” Seth says pointedly, folding his arms across his chest. It’s hanging there in the air between them: if Regal had been on Seth’s team, there’s no way Ambrose would’ve won as easily as he did. There’s a good chance he wouldn’t have won at all.

Ambrose nods, then breathes out heavily through his nose. “I wanted to say, uh.” He clears his throat, then coughs. “Uh, thanks. You know, or whatever.”

“Sorry?” asks Seth, leaning closer. “Didn’t catch that.”

“You fuckin’ did,” Ambrose grumbles. He looks to the ceiling and repeats, “Thanks.”

“Bet that hurt,” Seth replies. The look on Ambrose’s face could almost be called a wince. He wonders what it’s like, to be forced to be sincere when you’ve never been before in your life. “But anyway, don’t think you owe me. I didn’t do you any favors – I didn’t do it because you asked me to.”

That’s got Ambrose’s attention. He stops shifting around so much and looks at Seth, his head tilted just so in a silent question.

“A good team beats three individuals,” says Seth, shrugging. “William Regal isn’t a _nice guy_. I would’ve been off my game the whole match, wondering if I could trust him.”

“You can’t.” Ambrose’s voice is quiet. “He just doesn’t work that way. Lone wolf through and through.”

“Something you can relate to?” Seth asks. He busies himself getting his stuff back in his bag, needing something to do with his hands. He’s jittery. He’s on a kind of losing streak as of late, it seems, and he can’t help but notice it coincides pretty well with when he started not-hating Ambrose. Well, he still kind of hates him sometimes, it’s just, damn it. Even now, he’s off his game. He needs to get his mind back on winning and off of this asshole he sometimes has fairly good orgasms with.

“I used to think so,” Ambrose answers from behind him. “Recently I’m not so sure. Guess I’ve never really been a team player.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” Seth laughs under his breath, searching for his left boot. It’s nudged into his space by the toe of Ambrose’s shoe, and he mutters his gratitude without even thinking about it. Ambrose makes a noncommittal sound in return.

“I’d guess someone like you really wouldn’t understand,” Ambrose says to continue the conversation. “I bet you’re the kind of guy who’s always had a shitload of friends for any occasion.”

Seth shrugs. “I’ve never really been lonely, if that’s what you mean. I’ve got people who mean a lot to me. People I know I can count on.”

“Yeah.” Ambrose laughs and coughs at the same time, and it’s left unspoken that he’s never really experienced that. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you, you know. What I told you.”

“Is it really that hard for you to say?” Seth asks curiously, zipping up his back and turning back around to face Ambrose. “Is it that hard for you to just be grateful to someone?” The face Ambrose makes at that has Seth hazarding another guess, “Or are you just that unused to people doing nice things for you?”

Ambrose cringes. He schools his face remarkably quickly, but Seth saw. “I’m not used to… meaning it,” he says after a second. “It’s a weakness. Makes you vulnerable. Now you’ve done me a favor, even if you say you didn’t. And I’m gonna be waiting for you to call in what I owe you.”

“I already told you, I don’t want you to owe me anything,” Seth says, frowning. “Even if I had done it because you wanted me to, which I still didn’t. You don’t owe me shit, Ambrose. Actually, I’m not sure I want to know what your method of paying someone back would be.”

Ambrose huffs a laughing little sound. “I mean, I could suck your dick again.” He still looks cautious, but less resigned. “You seemed to like that all right.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” Seth swings his bag onto his shoulder. “Seriously, Ambrose. You don’t owe me anything. Though I think I probably still owe you a kick in the head or two from our last singles match.”

He gets a tiny smile at the corners of Ambrose’s lips. “Hey, man, you bandage a body part, I’m gonna target it. Wrestling Underhanded Tactics 101.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Seth grumbles. “Next time I get you in the ring, we’ll see if you’ve got the same smart mouth.”

“You wouldn’t like me without my smart mouth,” Ambrose says, chewing his gum obnoxiously. 

Seth’s half a second from saying that he doesn’t like Ambrose _with_ his smart mouth either, but at the last moment he just shakes his head, muttering, “Whatever.”

“I’ll get out of your way,” Ambrose says once there’s silence between them, taking a step back toward the door. “Said what I needed to.”

“Oh, you’re not gonna con your way into a ride back to the hotel this week?” Seth asks, unsure of why he’s asking. It’s not an offer, of course, because that’d be stupid, and insane, and it’s not like they’re friends who can just bum rides off each other.

Ambrose pauses at the door. “I’ll make it back one way or another,” he says slowly. “I got sources. Methods.”

Seth takes a deep breath and then lets it out. Ambrose is still standing there, something in his cocked eyebrow like a challenge, like he’s daring Seth to actually say the words. Seth’s not going to play his game.

“Okay,” he says, and the weird tension between them dissipates. “Maybe I’ll see you next week, then.”

“Maybe you will, maybe you won’t,” says Ambrose. He actually shoots finger guns at Seth, and while Seth’s staring at him, flabbergasted, he slips out the door. 

Seth shoves a hand through his hair. He has no idea what he’s gotten himself into, but he really needs to figure himself out before his next match. He didn’t come to FCW to get turned inside out by people when he’s not even wrestling them.

\--

Seth has quite a bit of time to figure himself out, as it happens. Two weeks with no matches makes for a pretty dull show, for him, but it does give him an opportunity to keep an eye on the competition. Just because he’s not wrestling anybody doesn’t mean he can’t watch the matches, and there are a few people who could probably give him a run for his money if ever they ended up in a match together. 

Oddly, though, Ambrose gets a week off as well, and not that Seth’s looking, but he can’t find the guy for the life of him. He guesses that if Ambrose doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be.

He has more luck his second week without a match. About halfway through the show, somebody makes the decision to give Ambrose a microphone, which is a mistake if Seth’s ever seen one. There are other, more famous wrestlers who have been called visionaries, or wordsmiths for the things they say on that thing, but Seth’s never seen anybody hold an audience like Ambrose does when he has a microphone in his hand.

For a minute while he’s talking, Seth finds himself falling into the trap. He’s just so goddamn _believable_ , an arrogant little shit but so confident of the things he’s saying that it’s hard to not just believe what he’s saying.

He thinks he’s misheard, at first. But no, Ambrose really is calling out Damien Sandow, saying he wants a shot at the FCW 15 title that he said a few weeks ago Seth was too good for. Apparently Ambrose isn’t too good for it, though, challenging Sandow now that Seth’s out of the picture.

Seth should’ve known better. He should’ve known Ambrose was a snake; couldn’t beat Seth without cheating to do it so he gets the title off Seth so he can face Sandow instead. Of course Ambrose can beat Sandow. Ambrose can beat just about anybody, but when it mattered, he didn’t beat Seth. He couldn’t get the title off him legitimately so he’s done some kind of roundabout scheme to get what he wants.

And of course he did. He’s Dean Ambrose. Seth doesn’t know how he could’ve expected anything else.

He feels like throwing something, or punching something, but he doesn’t have anything to throw or anyone to punch, so instead he runs through his stretches because that’s mindless and he can do it without really focusing.

The show’s not quite over when he decides he’s not going to wait around for Ambrose to come to him and try to butter him up. He doesn’t know where Ambrose is, but he’s going to find him and if he’s lucky he’ll be able to get a swing or two in.

There’s a pounding pressure behind his eyes as he makes his way down the hall. He passes at least three people who call greetings to him but he ignores them until someone grabs his elbow. It’s not hard, but it yanks Seth to a stop, and he’s about to bite the person’s head off when he sees who it is. Not somebody he wants to piss off.

“In a hurry?” Roman asks him, all cool calmness as usual. He let Seth’s arm go as soon as he got his attention, but still, something tells Seth that he’d be better off answering the question rather than just going on his way.

“Kind of,” Seth hedges. “I need to find somebody and kill them. It could probably wait a minute if you need something.”

Roman looks at him silently, his eyes narrowed. The guy is fucking _big_. Seth works with big guys all the time, so he’s hardly impressed by a good physique, but something about Roman is that bit larger than life that makes Seth think he’s probably going to be a pretty big star once he polishes up.

“I won’t keep you,” he says, finally. “Just thought I’d let you know I have a match against Antonio Cesaro next week.”

That is… actually something Seth should probably pay attention to. Cesaro’s after him for some reason, and he has no doubt that being friends of a sort with Roman won’t stop them from having matches against each other when the time comes. He’ll have to watch that one.

“Hope you kick his ass,” he says. “If you get a chance to fuck up his knee for a week or two, take it.”

Roman laughs, quiet and amused. “I’ll do my best,” he says before nodding and stepping back. “Hope your murder goes well.”

Seth’s mood darkens again. “Right,” he says. “I’ll talk to you later, man.”

“Try not to get arrested,” Roman advises, tipping his water bottle at Seth before he continues on his way down the hall. Seth should probably keep that in mind.

Ambrose’s locker room isn’t so hard to find. Seth was only there once before but it hasn’t moved and neither has Ambrose. Seth knocks on the door so hard it shudders. He wouldn’t even have that respect for Ambrose, considering all the times he’s just waltzed into Seth’s locker room, but he’s not an animal. He knocks on closed doors.

He hears footsteps approaching and narrows his eyes when the door doesn’t open even though he _knows_ Ambrose is in there.

“You gonna hit me?” comes the fucker’s voice. Points for foresight; he obviously knew Seth would be looking for him.

Or maybe he just figures anybody who’s looking for him is someone who wants to punch him. Seth would understand that, too.

“Open the fucking door,” he growls.

“Not until you promise not to hit me,” Ambrose replies, like a child, like a toddler bargaining with their mother so they don’t get yelled at. Seth hammers on the door again.

“Open the _door_ ,” he demands.

“How about I open the door and then we talk,” Ambrose offers. “You’re overreacting. I got a good reason for this, promise.”

“You’ve got a good reason for fucking me over?” Seth wants to know, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

“When have I ever lied to you?” Ambrose asks. Seth doesn’t want that to change his mind about anything, but god damn it, it still does. It did the first time Ambrose said it and it does again now. He’s got a point, after all. Ambrose has been nothing if not straightforward, at least with Seth. As far as he knows.

“Two minutes,” he says decisively. “Then I get to decide if I still wanna hit you.”

“I can work with two minutes,” says Ambrose, his voice clearer now as he opens the door and steps back so Seth can come in.

“Minute-fifty,” Seth mutters. He doesn’t turn his back on Ambrose for a second. “I’m listening.”

“You gotta know by now that Sandow was the one who told Cesaro to come after you before your match.” Ambrose launches right in. “Cesaro’s getting called up soon so he didn’t have anything to lose and they wanted to keep the title on Sandow because none of them can beat you without attacking you from behind.”

“I know they can’t,” Seth says coolly. “Doesn’t explain why you decided to get a title shot for yourself out of the goodness of your heart.”

“This may surprise you to hear,” says Ambrose, “but you’re a good person. You’re a nice guy. You’re good in the ring, amazing in the ring, I mean, you can beat me. But revenge? Not your thing. I just can’t see it.”

“Are you really trying to convince me,” Seth says, making an effort to keep his voice as slow and calm as he can make it, “that you got a title shot in order to _defend my honor_?”

Ambrose values his life, clearly, because he looks disgusted. “Come on, no, course not. I’m just saying that when it comes down to it, I don’t think you’ve got it in you to be a really sick guy.”

“You don’t get to make that decision for me.” Seth’s anger flares again. “Let’s get one thing straight – just because you’ve had my dick in your mouth doesn’t mean you know me, and it doesn’t mean you decide what I can and can’t do.”

“Look at yourself.” Ambrose waves a hand in Seth’s general direction, and Seth momentarily considers ripping it off and beating him to death with it. “Look at the way you act in front of the people who come to see you. You love it, it’s obvious. You love that they love you. You care about what they think.”

“They’re the reason I get paid every week, so, yeah.” Seth frowns. What’s Ambrose’s angle?

“No.” It’s so sharp out of Ambrose’s mouth that Seth almost flinches back. “ _You_ are the reason you get paid every week. Most of the guys here, they’re a dime a dozen. They do their flippy shit and the idiots out there lap it up. You’re better than that. You’re better than them. And once you stop caring so much what they think, you’ll be unbeatable.”

“Good speech,” Seth says, unimpressed. “So, what, you think I should be more like _you_? Not give a shit about anybody but myself, talking about how good I am all the time? I already know how good I am at what I do. I’ve worked hard to get where I am and I’m not gonna change because Dean Ambrose thinks I should.”

“Exactly!” Ambrose exclaims. “Exactly, you’re not going to be anything but you, right? And you’re not the type of person who can get the right message across to a guy like Damien Sandow. He’s so far up his own ass that you’ve got to shout to get his attention. And you aren’t the shouting type.”

“I can shout plenty when I need to.” They’re not talking about shouting, not with your words, at least, and Seth’s voice is like ice. Ambrose just smiles at him, kind of curious before he shakes his head.

“I think you could, probably. Someday. Maybe even someday soon. Just not soon enough, and I don’t like waiting around for people to learn their lessons.”

“What makes you think I need somebody else fighting my battles for me?” Seth asks. His fist clenches and unclenches. He doubts Ambrose fails to notice. “What makes you think I need _you_ to fight my battles for me? What about cheating me out of my title and then arranging to win it yourself is going to make him learn his lesson?”

Ambrose smiles at him, hands clasped behind his back like a little girl in her favorite party dress. “You’re misunderstanding a very vital part of this plan,” he says. For the first time, Seth notices that he’s gotten closer, so close that he can settle a hand on Seth’s shoulder. “I’m gonna let you in on a secret.”

He leans in so that his mouth is pressed close to Seth’s ear, voice lowering in a parody of a whisper. Seth doesn’t move even though he can feel the thud of the anger in his veins.

“Who said I planned on winning the match?” Ambrose asks him, his hand tightening in a squeeze where it’s resting. He gives Seth’s shoulder a pat, and nods jauntily as he reaches past him to open the door. “I’ll see you next week, sweetheart.”

And then he’s gone, leaving Seth with more questions than answers and with a bit of a boner. Typical Ambrose, really.

\--

Seth finally has a match the next week, but Ambrose’s is before his in the show. He’s not sure if he prefers it that way or not. Ambrose’s is first on the card while his is the main event, so there’d be time between for him to find Ambrose if he was talking out his ass about not intending to win the title. But then again, if his match was right after Ambrose’s, he’d at least be able to channel his anger into something useful against Richie.

He gets his gear on while he’s waiting for the show to start, going through the motions even though he’s mind’s on the match about to happen. The frou-frou music that starts playing from the monitor startles him. Sandow’s frou-frou, though; not Regal’s frou-frou. As far as Seth knows, nobody’s heard from Regal since the match he and Ambrose had.

While he’s been deliberately keeping his mind off the match that’s starting off the show, Ambrose has already made his way to the ring. He looks just like he always does in the ring: a little off balance but all ready to go.

It only takes about a minute out of the fifteen minute time limit for Seth to see that something’s different. Ambrose is off his game, failing to attack where he should, letting Sandow use bullshit tactics to run the time down. He’s better than that. Ambrose knows when to let it look like he’s getting distracted and then pounce, but in this case, he’s really just… different. Something is _off_.

It’s not enough that Seth thinks anybody else would notice. Ambrose is good at what he does, even when what he’s doing is trying to be worse than he is. He’s crazy, fucking loony, and everyone knows that. But Ambrose _knows_ that everybody knows that. And he’s using it to his advantage – upping the weird behavior, pretending he’s an airplane, laughing when Sandow hits him, dancing around the ring.

In some ways, it’s exactly like Ambrose. In others, it’s too much like Ambrose. Like a caricature.

The first fall goes to Sandow, off a modified neckbreaker. A neckbreaker, really? Granted, they’ve been out there wrestling for a while, but knowing what he knows, Seth just doesn’t buy that Ambrose couldn’t have kicked out of that pin.

And then the end of the match happens. Sandow unties the turnbuckle cover and suckers Ambrose into getting himself disqualified, going down two falls to one. The look on Ambrose’s face is something to see, a mix of a smile and something darker. He holds two fingers up to the referee in question, and then, a weird glint in his eye, he slams Sandow’s head into the exposed steel again.

And again.

And again.

He does it so many times that Seth’s pretty sure Sandow’s knocked out for real, and Ambrose has lost the match and the title but Sandow’s eyes are rolling back in his head. Ambrose rolls out of the ring to grab the medal and shove it over Sandow’s lolling head before he puts him in – an STF? No, it’s the Regal Stretch. He’s got Sandow in William Regal’s finishing move.

The announcers are talking about how Ambrose was trying to send a message to the rest of the locker room, but they’re wrong. The message was meant to be sent to two people, and Seth knows he was one of them.

Maybe three people, if Sandow’s even capable of receiving any messages right now. 

There are referees in the ring trying to get Ambrose off him, but Ambrose keeps the submission on until he damn well feels like letting it go. Then he saunters away like he’s the one who won the match, and from where Seth’s sitting, he looks much more like the victor even though it’s not his music playing.

Seth’s expecting a visit fairly soon, now, and he waits, leaning back in his chair and thinking. Ambrose kept his word as far as Seth can tell, and that counts for something. He’s just not positive what, yet.

Sure enough, there’s not even a knock as Ambrose opens his door, half waltzing into the room and closing the door behind him. He’s sweaty and flushed, eyes bright with his success, or at least what Ambrose would view as success.

“Happy with yourself?” Seth asks. It’s hard not to smile, actually, with Ambrose still doing his weird floaty dance around the room.

“You should try just beating the shit out of someone sometime,” Ambrose tells him, finally flopping into a chair opposite Seth. He’s still grinning, exhilarated. “Were you watching? How’d I do? Do I get a gold star?”

“You get something,” Seth murmurs, shaking his head. “He probably has a concussion now, you know. Might not even be able to wrestle next week.”

“What a shame,” says Ambrose without a hint of sincerity. “I was hoping he’d start bleeding but I guess his head’s harder than I thought it’d be.”

“Too bad,” Seth says without thinking. The smile Ambrose levels at him is near delighted. Seth clears his throat. “You planning on causing any other havoc tonight?”

“I think I sent the message I wanted to the people I wanted,” Ambrose says. He raises his eyebrows. “You have something in mind?”

“I’ve got a match on last,” says Seth. He’s finding himself regretting that, because right here and now they’re on a line between laughter and something else. They’re always teetering on that line between something and something else, whether it’s laughter or anger or anything. It’s like Seth’s only ever a step or two away from wanting in Ambrose’s pants. He swears he used to have more self-control over this kind of thing.

Ambrose is looking at him like he’s tempted to tell Seth to skip it. He’s still breathing pretty hard, though Seth’s no longer sure if it’s from the match he just had or from something else.

How did this happen? How did they flip a switch so quickly, from talking about beating Damien Sandow bloody to not-talking about what they’re always not-talking about?

“You gonna be busy after you beat him?” Ambrose asks. Seth doesn’t want that to be a nice feeling, but it goes straight to his ego, and his lips twitch before he can stop them.

“Dunno,” he says. “Might be. Might not be. You gonna hang around or go back into hiding?”

Ambrose hums thoughtfully. “I could probably be convinced to stick around a while.”

Seth shakes his head and laughs to himself. “This is stupid,” he mutters. “I can’t believe this is what I’m thinking about doing. I don’t like you.”

“Come on,” Ambrose coaxes. “You like me a _little_.”

“You’re okay, sometimes.” Seth shrugs. “Mostly when you keep your mouth shut and you’re wrestling people I like less than you.”

Ambrose leans forward with his elbows on his knees chin cupped in his hands. “Sure you want me keeping my mouth shut?” he asks, licking his lips in a deliberate motion that shouldn’t turn Seth on. Doesn’t turn Seth on.

“Yes,” he says firmly, looking away. “I need to get ready for my match.”

He’s all but ready, actually, just needs to loosen up his limbs a little, make sure his muscles don’t cool down between now and then. FCW’s only an hour long, so there’s really not that much time between the beginning and the end of the show. He does want to catch Roman’s match, if he can. It’s right before his as far as he knows.

“You look pretty ready to me,” says Ambrose. He does lean back in his seat, though, and nods at the monitor. “That one’ll be good.”

When Seth looks, he has to do his best not to react. Is Ambrose a fucking mind reader or is Seth just that obvious? It was most likely happy coincidence that he just remembered the match he wants to watch as it started, both Cesaro and Roman already in the ring.

Should Seth call him by his first name? He hadn’t even thought about it, and everybody else he’s talked to still calls him Leakee. He might be being unintentionally rude. He’ll ask about it next time they run into each other.

“Who’re you pulling for?” Ambrose asks him.

“Uh, Leakee,” Seth mutters. “He’s never tried to break my fucking knee and screw me out of my title rematch.”

“Oh, right. Forgot about that.” Ambrose rubs the back of his neck, and Seth snorts, turning his gaze back to the match.

“Lucky you,” he replies.

It really is a great match. Ambrose stays mostly silent except for an occasional appreciative hum at a decent counter, and Seth sighs, disappointed when Cesaro’s the one who gets his hand raised.

“He gave him a pretty good fight,” Ambrose says. “I guess the experience factored in. Thought the big guy had him a few times there.”

“He’s been getting better and better,” replies Seth. “He’s a natural in the ring. Guess he’d have to be, family like his.” He sighs again. “My match is up next.”

“I think I’ll just wait here, if you don’t mind.” Ambrose shrugs and shifts in his seat, making a show of getting comfortable. “I think we’re not done talking.”

“I’m not your keeper, I got no control over you.” Seth shrugs right back at him. “Just don’t steal my car keys again.”

“I gave them back. I don’t think it counts as stealing if I give them back!” Ambrose’s voice raises until he’s shouting as Seth leaves, closing the door behind him. He clears his thoughts of everything to do with Ambrose. He’s got a match to win, and hopefully break him out of this losing slump.

He should’ve known it’d be too much to hope that Husky could just fucking leave Steamboat alone for ten goddamn minutes so Seth can get a win over somebody. And Seth gets it, he gets being so angry at somebody, so pissed off that you just want to hit them and it doesn’t matter what they’re doing, you hate them and you want them to suffer. But he’s so _angry_ that Husky couldn’t just leave well enough alone.

“Shut up,” he says shortly when he gets back to his locker room after the huge fight that erupts. He got disqualified for Husky’s interference, which means another loss on the books, _again_.

Ambrose is still there, but he listens for once and doesn’t say a thing. Seth is only in there long enough to notice that at some point Ambrose apparently went back to his locker room because he’s dressed, now, before he slams his way into the shower.

He goes through the motions, though he’s pretty sure he yanks some of his hair out while he’s washing it. Why can’t he just get a clean win in a match? At this point, he’d take just about any win. He’d take a win by countout, a win by DQ, a win because the other guy tripped over his bootlace and knocked himself out.

Once he’s done cleaning up, he sets the water to as cold as it goes and just stands there for a minute, letting it pelt down on him. It helps, if only a little, to make his anger less burning, to keep him grounded. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, turning it off. He didn’t grab his bag before he stormed in here, but when he turns to go grab it, it’s already sitting just inside the door, like it’s always been there, even though Seth knows for a fact he didn’t put it there. “Fuck,” he sighs again. He _must_ look pathetic lately if Dean fucking Ambrose is doing him favors.

By the time he gets dressed, he’s feeling a little calmer. This isn’t the first streak of losses he’s had, and it won’t be the last. He’s just having a bit of a dry spell right now. He has to step up his game.

Ambrose is still there when he comes out, not that Seth was expecting him to leave. Ambrose has a knack for hanging around even when it would probably be best for him to make himself scarce.

“You want someone to hit?” Ambrose offers. “I’ll let you hit me, if you want. Might make you feel better.”

Seth honestly considers it. He narrows his eyes at Ambrose and imagines the satisfying feeling of knuckles splitting against skin, and then he shakes his head.

“I’m not gonna hit you,” he mutters. “Wouldn’t be the same. You actually haven’t done anything recently to piss me off.”

“Since when would that stop you?” Ambrose tilts his head to present the side of his face. “Sure you don’t wanna get a swing or two in? I mean, I’ll hit you back, but you can have the first one free.”

“I said I’m not gonna hit you.” Seth puts some warning in his voice. “It wouldn’t help anything. I’m just… frustrated.”

“I got ways of helping out with that, too.” Ambrose is still chewing gum. Seth wonders if he ever stops. Has he ever seen Ambrose without gum in his mouth? “If you’re still interested.”

Seth crosses his arms and looks at Ambrose. The anger is still seething in the back of his mind, but he’s remembering, now, before his match, that kind of simmering heat that had him nearly ready to skip it. He wants that. He wants to pin someone, and it might feel as good even if it’s outside the ring.

“Okay,” he says, finally, digging his keys out of his bag. Ambrose hasn’t touched them this time. “Let’s go.”

Ambrose seems taken aback. “Let’s go?” he repeats, as Seth reaches past him to open the door.

“Yep,” Seth replies, walking past Ambrose. He’s pretty sure that Ambrose will follow.

He’s right, and Ambrose’s footsteps follow him all the way out to his car. He’s still not sure how Ambrose gets to and from the arena when he’s not bumming a ride with Seth. Then again, he’s not sure what Ambrose does with his time at all when he’s not at the arena.

“You seem surprised,” Seth says once they’re both in the car, Ambrose’s bewildered eyebrows prompting him to comment.

Ambrose takes a second to answer, fiddling around with his seatbelt. “I was more expecting you to take up the offer to hit me,” he says, slowly. “I’m liking this decision better, though.”

“I can still hit you, if that’s what you want,” Seth says, making a sharper turn than he probably should. “Just thought we might both like this more.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m always happy to lend a hand if you’re in need of gettin’ your rocks off,” Ambrose assures him. Seth coughs to hide a smile. “I just thought maybe we were gonna keep dancing around it until we both dropped dead of blue balls.”

“I’m not dancing around anything,” Seth says, finally veering into a parking spot at the hotel. He’s pretty sure he broke the speed limit at least three times, getting here. 

Ambrose makes a skeptical noise, but says, “If you say so.”

Seth’s blood is pounding in his ears. Maybe he hasn’t intentionally been dancing around, but that doesn’t mean he’s anticipating this any less. Ambrose’s mouth on his dick was one of the better sensations he’s experienced in his entire life, and if he can manage that again, the last few shitty weeks might actually seem a little better.

Ambrose looks odd, standing in his hotel room. When Seth closes the door behind him, it strikes him all at once that he’s just invited Ambrose into his space, into a place that’s just his. They’re not friends. They’re still, in a lot of ways, what technically could be called enemies. But Seth’s thinking with his dick again, and now Dean Ambrose is in his hotel room.

“You’re thinking again,” Ambrose sings, hands in his pockets. He’s not even looking around, instead looking right at Seth, shifting his weight back and forth. “Thought we talked about how you shouldn’t do that anymore.”

“This is probably one of the stupidest things I’ve done in a while,” Seth mutters, dropping his bag to sit on his bed. “And I did a lot of stupid things when I was just starting out in this business.”

“Hey, me too,” says Ambrose. “Let’s swap stories sometime.”

He shrugs off his jacket and hangs it on a chair, then, smooth as anything, drops to straddle Seth’s lap.

“I told you this doesn’t have to mean anything you don’t want it to,” he says. “Haven’t you ever had no-strings-attached sex before?”

“Not with somebody I knew I’d probably be in the ring with again.” He’s never fucked an opponent before. Sure, sometimes, when you and your tag partner, maybe, had a really good match, and you’re still high off the adrenaline, you trade quick handjobs in a bathroom and it doesn’t mean anything. But he’s never been in bed with someone he knew he’d end up facing anytime soon.

His hands settle on Ambrose’s hips without his permission. Ambrose isn’t even looking at Seth head-on, instead casually reaching to shove his shoes off. He’s not wearing socks. Seth’s not sure why he noticed.

“Answer a question for me,” Ambrose says. “You gonna go easy on me in our next match if I suck your dick real good?”

“No!” Seth says, aghast until Ambrose squeezes his shoulders and cuts him off.

“Neither am I. So it doesn’t matter,” he reasons. “Stop thinking about it so hard. I swear, every time I forget what a princess you can be about this.”

“I’m not – shut up,” Seth says, when he sees the grin on Ambrose’s face.

“Make me.” There’s a definite challenge there, a hint of something more than what Ambrose is saying. He’s right, is the thing. There’s no way that Seth would ever _go easy_ on Ambrose in a match, no matter if the guy gave him thirty great blowjobs in a row.

So it doesn’t matter. They’re just blowing off steam and nothing will change, and Seth should really stop thinking and start doing.

He yanks Ambrose down by the collar of his shirt and kisses him, momentarily dissuaded by the clack of their teeth, until the angle is righted and it’s just lips and tongue. Ambrose is still a fucking good kisser, only breaking the kiss to pull back and tug his shirt off before he’s back, warm skin under Seth’s fingers and a hot mouth against Seth’s lips.

“Princess,” Ambrose says into his mouth, goading, his hips a rhythmic pressure against Seth’s. He bites Seth’s lower lip. “Prettyboy princess.”

Seth growls and flips them, getting his own shirt off in the process and then using his weight to pin Ambrose down. He was right, it is pretty satisfying. 

Ambrose’s hands are on either side of Seth’s neck, and he pulls him down into another kiss, his thumbs points of pressure on Seth’s jaw. This one’s harder, rougher, more intense, like they’re done playing around and Ambrose is telling him without words.

“You wanna fuck me?” Ambrose mumbles against his mouth. He’s fond of that, talking while kissing. Seth would point it out, but he’s busy trying to keep his dick from fucking tearing through his pants. “Bet you do,” Ambrose continues, pressing up against him. “I bet you’ve thought about it since last time. You want to, don’t you?”

Seth digs his nails into Ambrose’s ribs to get him to shut up, but he just moans, and slides his fingertips down the indentation of Seth’s spine. 

“I’ll let you,” Ambrose says. Hisses, because Seth’s bitten down on his collarbone. “I want you to. Bet you’ll be so fucking good, you’re really fucking good at everything else, y’know, so why wouldn’t you be – fuck,” he grunts, Seth’s hand rubbing over the bulge of his cock. He’s rambling, saying words apparently as his brain comes up with them, and something about it makes Seth want… makes him want.

Seth undoes the button of Ambrose’s jeans, a feat considering how much he’s squirming, trying to re-initiate contact, only stopping when Seth grinds the heel of his hand down. He looks good like this, mouth open in a pant, his eyes half-lidded and hazy. Seth kind of wants Ambrose to look at him like that all the time.

“I want to,” he says. It sounds more like a confession than he’s expecting. Everything, all this, and it’s fairly obvious he wants to fuck Ambrose, but he’s never said it out loud. He’s barely even said it to himself, because it feels like failure, like he’s unable to resist something that he should be able to resist. 

Ambrose licks his neck. It’s not even a sexy lick, slow and seductive. It’s a dog-like lick, wet and quick, a stripe of damp against Seth’s throat. He laughs against Seth’s pulse. “I know,” he says into his ear. “You don’t hide it very well.”

It sounds mocking to Seth’s ears and probably is, because it’s Ambrose, so he pins Ambrose’s wrists to the bed on impulse. His instincts are right, because even though Ambrose could definitely get his hands free if he wanted, he doesn’t. He just lets out a tremulous sigh and tries to grind up against Seth.

“I have stuff,” Ambrose says, legs spreading a little wider to accommodate Seth’s weight, “in my bag, if you want.”

Seth doesn’t know if everything Ambrose says when he’s turned on has that hint of challenge to it or if Seth’s just hearing it that way, but it makes him want to pin the other man down even harder. 

“Stay there,” Seth says firmly, his thumbs digging into the softest parts of Ambrose’s wrists. When he slips off the bed, Ambrose stays, even keeping his hands right where they are. His hips move a little, but Seth can’t blame him for that.

He toes off his own shoes as he goes, leaving them where they fall instead of propping them by the door. He’ll never be able to find them later but it doesn’t matter right now. He does have socks on, because he’s not a barbarian, so he gets those off too, while he’s at it. There’s not much less sexy than fucking with socks on.

Seth makes a guess and unzips the side pocket of Ambrose’s bag, coming up with the essentials for what they’re about to do: lube and a condom. He looks over his shoulder to raise an eyebrow at Ambrose.

“You always this prepared?” he asks.

“Call it wishful thinking,” Ambrose replies. He still hasn’t moved. Seth’s kind of impressed by his self-control. He doesn’t think he’d be able to stay that stationary, if he was in Ambrose’s position. He’s learning, though, that for all Ambrose hates to be told what to do outside the bedroom, he’s practically got a fetish for it inside. 

“Yeah?” Seth asks, returning to the bed, hands-and-knees as he makes to get back into his previous position. Before he does, though, he thinks better of it, hooking his fingers into the waist of Ambrose’s already undone jeans and pulling them off along with his underwear. Ambrose seems somehow much larger, naked. Seth’s never seen him like this and he has… a lot of skin. Which is a stupid thought to have; he’s a human being, of course he has a lot of skin. But somehow Seth wasn’t expecting it, even though he sees most of it every time the man wrestles.

Ambrose shrugs as well as he can without moving his arms, so, not very. “Or a hunch. Does it matter?”

“Guess not.” Seth slides his hand up Ambrose’s thigh because it’s there and he can. He’s done this before, a few times, but not since he came to Florida. Always been on this end of it. Ambrose had guessed, a long time ago, and he was right. Seth’s never been fucked, he’s always done the fucking. He doesn’t know if that’s why Ambrose wants it that way this time.

He’s thinking too much. Always thinking too much.

Seth’s a little out of practice, but he’s nothing if not innovative. He can pretend to be a connoisseur of cock. He thinks either way, Ambrose isn’t going to complain. Or maybe he will anyway. It’s kind of his thing.

“Like what you see?” Ambrose asks him, watching the way Seth’s fingers are walking underneath his navel. He seems altogether composed, except his erection is bumping the underside of Seth’s wrist.

“I see most of it on a weekly basis,” Seth points out, twisting his hand to give Ambrose’s cock an experimental tug. He feels like this is the first time he’s really initiating the touch, even though they’ve gotten off together before. It’s kind of nice, and Ambrose clearly likes it, from the noise he makes and the way his body shudders a little.

Ambrose still has his hands held up next to the pillow, like he’s just waiting for Seth to take hold of his wrists again. “Yeah, but it’s different,” Ambrose says simply. He’s right, it is different. Even though Seth does see most of it on a weekly basis, when he’s wrestling Ambrose, in those situations he’s not usually also giving him a handjob.

“It’s different,” Seth agrees. He lets go of Ambrose’s dick to get his own pants off, dropping them off the edge of the bed. They’re both naked now, and even with everything, Seth’s still in disbelief that this is how he’s ended up with Ambrose. He’s in disbelief that any of this is even happening, actually.

“Come here,” says Ambrose, but it’s not a demand, or a whine. It’s more of a request than anything, and Seth acquiesces, carefully lowering himself to kiss Ambrose again. 

Wrestling is a contact sport. Seth’s used to large amounts of his skin touching large amounts of another guy’s skin, but usually their dicks aren’t involved at all, and Seth’s cock isn’t slipping up against the groove of a hipbone, and there’s no making out. It’s a weird balance to strike, between something he’s really used to and something he’s so very not used to.

Ambrose inhales heavily when Seth’s hands close back around his wrists for a second, his kiss faltering, his mouth slipping to kiss beneath Seth’s chin instead. Okay, so he likes that. Seth probably won’t be able to do it the whole time, but he can do his best.

“How d’you want me?” Ambrose asks in a mumble against Seth’s neck. “Like this?” Another kiss, this one with a hint of bite to it, at the place where Seth’s neck curves into his shoulder. “Hands and knees?”

Seth entertains the thought for a moment, being able to do this without having to look at Ambrose directly, but something about it just strikes him as not… not what he wants.

“Just like this,” he mutters, letting go of one of Ambrose’s wrists to experimentally push one of his thighs up and back as far as it’ll go. Ambrose is more flexible than Seth thought, which isn’t something he needed to know, but he does now.

Lube, right. He needs lube, and that condom, right now, because Ambrose is looking at him like he honestly can’t wait for Seth to fuck him, and Seth’s feeling a little too similar for his comfort.

He finagles the condom on with little to no finesse, distracted by Ambrose, which is stupid because Ambrose isn’t doing anything other than lying there watching him with a little smile, his stupid wrists still by his head and his stupid legs spread, just waiting for Seth to be between them. He doesn’t even say anything. Just watches, and waits.

Seth isn’t so far gone that he’s forgotten that there’s prep involved here. Asses aren’t self-lubricating and no matter how much Ambrose seems to be kind of getting off on the little stings of pain from pinches and scratches, Seth’s not just going to go in guns blazing and actually, like, hurt him. No matter how confused his own feelings about Ambrose are, no matter how much he wants to hurt the guy sometimes, it’s different when they’re not in the arena. This is different.

He grabs the lube from where he’d dropped it on the bed earlier, popping the cap and squirting it liberally onto his fingers. You can never have too much, he’s learned, but you can definitely have too little. He nudges Ambrose’s legs apart even more with one of his thighs, and still, Ambrose is just watching him.

Seth licks his lips. “You good?” he checks. He’s not sure why. For some kind of noise.

“Wondering if I’ve ever been better,” Ambrose replies, helpfully rolling his hips to balance more of his weight on his lower back rather than his tailbone. “Any day now, if you wanna put those to good use.”

“Shut up,” says Seth, but he’s smiling as he lowers his hand, and Ambrose shuts up at the first touch of Seth’s slippery fingers to skin. He opens right up for Seth after a moment, one finger pressing into him where he’s hot and tight, and the thought of his cock fitting is, as it always is, daunting. It seems impossible that such a tight space could accommodate even multiple fingers, much less something bigger.

It will, though. The human body is amazing like that.

Ambrose is making it so easy, his head tipped back against the pillow when Seth slides a second finger in along with the first, and Ambrose just rocks his hips into the pressure, his body letting Seth’s fingers in like it was made to, and Seth is going to _fuck_ him, he’s going to get his cock in the same space his fingers are in right now and Ambrose is going to just take him so well and Seth, Seth needs to stop thinking about this before he has a problem.

“That’s fine, that’s enough.” Seth almost doesn’t hear Ambrose over the rushing of blood in his ears. He actually feels a bit dizzy from how hard he’s gotten so fast. “Just do it.”

“You sure?” But Seth’s already removing his fingers, smearing more lube over himself.

“Yeah. I kinda like it when it burns a little.” Ambrose’s head is still dropped back but he’s looking right at Seth as his lip catches between his teeth, and Seth suppresses a shiver. He’ll take his word for it.

Ambrose rolls with him when he gets his hands underneath his knees letting Seth push them back again until they’re nearly to his chest. Seth’s eyes keep darting to his hands, which haven’t moved, and then back to his face. 

He slides the head of his dick along Ambrose’s hole, and Ambrose makes a strangled choking sound which becomes a strangled moan when Seth pushes inside, and _holy fucking hell_ Seth will never get used to that first few seconds of tight warm hot pressure squeezing his dick. He could fuck a million people and it’d still take his breath away every time, just steal the air right from his lungs. Ambrose’s stomach muscles are twitching against Seth’s palm, where his hand is pressed just above Ambrose’s hip to balance himself as the other hand moved almost automatically to grab Ambrose’s wrist and squeeze, holding it to the bed.

Ambrose is muttering something under his breath, and Seth has to calm his breathing before he manages to hear it, the way Ambrose is saying _yes, yes, yes, yes, yes_ over and over again. It just makes his breathing pick up again, and he moves his other hand to retake his grip on Ambrose’s other wrist.

They’re very close, like this, the slow, easy catch and pull of their hips and the way that this hold means Seth’s face is so close to Ambrose’s that he could count his eyelashes if he were so inclined. Seth kisses him because he has to, more or less, because he can’t be this close to Ambrose’s face looking into his eyes with Ambrose looking back. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

Seth manages to settle into a rhythm even though his hands are occupied and his mouth is occupied and his dick is occupied, his head pounding. This isn’t happening how it expected it would. He thought that Ambrose would be more of a dick, more mouthing off but so far that hasn’t been the case.

All the other times have been faster, messy, meaningless screwing. This is something else but Seth doesn’t know what to call it. He just knows Ambrose feels good underneath him, and the sounds he makes are incredible, and nothing really makes sense anymore.

“Thinking,” Ambrose mutters against his mouth. He knows Seth too well for somebody who doesn’t know him at all, and Seth’s still not sure whether he should be more creeped out or what. “Stop thinking, it makes my dick soft.”

Seth has to laugh at that, though it’s choked. He lets go of one of Ambrose’s wrists to snake a hand down between them and grip his cock, just as hard as it’s been this whole time, rubbing slick pre-come against Seth’s belly between them. “Does it?”

Ambrose snaps his teeth together close to Seth’s face, and he jerks backward, but Ambrose isn’t going rabid. He also finally moves his hands, sliding them up Seth’s sides and back down, then up into his hair where he uses them to drag his face closer again. Not for a kiss, apparently; just to breathe into his mouth, Seth’s hair a curtain around their faces. He waits for Ambrose to bite his lip, or kiss him again, but he doesn’t. He just holds Seth’s face close and breathes against him.

The breathing is the only noise, and for a moment the silence feels like the loudest thing Seth has ever heard, like he’s just heard a noise so loud that it burst his eardrums and that’s the only reason there’s no sound. The air is heavy. They’re sweaty and breathing and silent, just for a second, and that second sticks with Seth for a long time.

That’s how Ambrose comes, with Seth’s hand still around his dick and his mouth pressed to Seth’s in something that’s not a kiss but Seth’s not sure what else to call it. His breath hitches twice and then there’s warm wet between them, rubbing off on Seth’s skin where they’re pressed together. It’s sudden and unexpected, and startlingly hot, so much so that Seth finds himself adjusting his angle and fucking into Ambrose just a few more times before he spills into the condom.

He does his best not to drop his entire weight onto Ambrose, but only manages halfway, sliding out of him and off to the side in one motion. His ribs are still pressed against Ambrose’s, and one of his legs is between his, but Ambrose doesn’t make a noise of discomfort, so Seth considers that a success. Which is good because he’s not actually sure if he can move.

It does actually take him a moment to work up the energy to get rid of the condom, tying it off and dropping it into the trash can next to the bed. His arms are tingling like he’s had an electric shock or something, and his breathing’s still labored.

For a minute, there’s just silence, and just before it’d edge into awkward, post-coitus or not, Ambrose stretches, his body a long line as he makes a satisfied noise.

“Not bad,” he declares.

Seth sputters. “Not bad?” he repeats before he notices that stupid grin on Ambrose’s face. He’s not sure if it makes him want to hit him more or less, but at least he’s positive it was a joke, now. “Oh, shut up,” he mutters. It seems like he’s always saying that to Ambrose.

“Mm,” Ambrose replies, sliding a hand down his chest and wrinkling his nose when he runs across the come smudged on his stomach. “Mind if I…?” he asks, gesturing to the mess. He takes Seth’s shrug as a positive answer, rolling off the bed and scratching his shoulder before he makes his way into the bathroom without any further ado.

Seth blinks at the door. Well, if he’s not going to make a big deal about it, Seth guesses he shouldn’t, either. It wasn’t a big deal, for one thing, and for another, he’s not quite sure what he’d do about it if it was.

They switch places when Ambrose is done, and Seth goes into the bathroom to give himself a general wipe down. By the time he leaves, Ambrose is dressed again, sat on the messed up bed with his legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle.

“You work fast,” Seth notes, suddenly wishing he’d had the foresight to grab some shorts or something before he went into the bathroom. His bag is close enough, so he bends to grab a pair from it, but he feels off, like something just isn’t fitting into place.

“Figured I’d get out of your hair.” Ambrose shrugs and stands, his bag in his hand. “No use in staying longer than you’re wanted, right?”

“I guess,” Seth says slowly. He thinks of saying that he wouldn’t mind if Ambrose stayed a while, maybe for round two at some point in the night. But he clearly wants to leave, and Seth’s not going to be the one to stop him.

“This was good.” There’s something, something Seth’s missing, something in Ambrose’s voice that he feels like he should be hearing but that he’s not saying. Ambrose is looking around the hotel room, and it’s only because Seth moves back to the bed that it clicks – Ambrose is doing everything he can to avoid looking at Seth.

He frowns, opens his mouth, then closes it again. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it was really good. Thanks for, uh, helping me work out my. Frustration.” The words coming out of his mouth are all wrong. What’s changed in the last three minutes to make this all make even less sense than it did?

Ambrose grins at him, all teeth and suggestion. It’s normal, in the midst of everything else. “Anytime,” he says. “Always happy to help, you know that.”

Seth snorts. “You know, I hadn’t heard that about you.”

“Not listening hard enough.” Ambrose worries his lower lip for a second, then says, “I’ll see you around, Seth.”

“Yeah,” Seth says, watching as Ambrose twists the door knob to let himself out. “See you around, Ambrose.”

\--

Seth gets a call on Wednesday telling him that he’s getting an FCW title shot. 

In disbelief, he asks Maxine if she’s sure. His win-loss record for the past month leaves something to be desired, to be honest, and he’s not going to say no to a title shot – but part of him can’t help but wonder if she’s been watching the same shows he has.

Maxine laughs, a tinkly, insincere sound. “Of course I’m sure. It’s my job to be sure, Seth. You’ve been steadily improving in the ring since you got here and I think a title match could really give you an opportunity to shine. I know how honored you were to defend the Jack Briscoe championship, but to be honest, you’re main event material.”

“Thank you,” Seth says, his mouth dry. “I, uh, I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t. I’ll see you at the show, Seth.” The conversation ends as abruptly as it started, and Seth’s left staring at the phone in his hand.

It still hasn’t sunk in by the time Seth gets to the arena for the show. He’s ready, he’s prepared, because he always is, but it still hasn’t hit him that if he can get the drop on Kruger tonight, he’ll be the FCW champion. He loved being Jack Brisco champion, and he was good at it, but if you’re not trying to be the top tier champion of your promotion, you’re not doing wrestling right.

He locks the door to his locker room before he settles in to watch the show. He doesn’t know if it’s been generally announced that he’s getting a title shot, but he doesn’t want anybody else interrupting his headspace before the match. He can’t be distracted when he gets into that ring.

The show passes in a blur. Seth notices some things; tag match, Xavier Woods singing, then winning. The camera cuts to Ambrose, and Seth starts paying attention. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for. Ambrose looks just the same as always, and why shouldn’t he? Nothing’s changed. 

He talks about how he hasn’t slept in a week, how he’ll face anyone, anytime, whether it’s Sandow or Cesaro or Seth – Seth smiles a little at that – or William Regal, who still hasn’t shown up. Nobody’s seen him since the match. Ambrose calls himself a monster, and his half-crazed wide eyes lead Seth to believe it’s truer than false.

He’d thought that maybe Ambrose would’ve given up on the Regal thing by now, but he should’ve known he wouldn’t. Seth probably wouldn’t either, if he was in his place. He knows Ambrose can beat Regal and Ambrose know, too, but a loss like that rankles, pushes you to be better. He just hopes Ambrose isn’t getting in over his head.

Not that he cares. He’s got other things to be concerned about, like beating Leo Kruger and becoming FCW champion.

Speaking of which, his match is after the Divas match that’s on now, so he should probably start heading that way. He shakes out his hands and bounces on the balls of his feet a few times to limber up. Part of him expects Ambrose to be lingering outside his door, like he has been lately, but he’s not. Seth doesn’t have time to figure out whether he’s grateful or disappointed.

He’s ready. He’s ready for this, ready to become the champion. He can’t get sidetracked by Dean’s weird obsession with William Regal.

… Ambrose’s weird obsession with William Regal. Fuck, Seth needs to focus.

Once he gets into the ring, it’s all business. He doesn’t have to tell himself to focus because he _is_ focus when he’s wrestling. He’s focus and stamina and precision, and he can beat Kruger. He can do this.

The match starts off slow, which is how Seth likes it. He knows his cardio tends to be better than the guy he’s across from in the ring on a given night, and a slow start means a longer match means he’ll still be going strong when the other guy’s flagging.

Kruger’s no joke. He stays on Seth, barely letting him breathe, getting him into submissions as often as he can to slow down the pace even more. But Seth’s holding his own, until, until, until. He makes a mistake.

He should know better, but Cesaro is on the apron, and Seth knows if this match ends in a disqualification, he won’t win the title, so he attacks first. Brings Cesaro into the ring, and Kruger tries to hit him with the belt while the ref’s back is turned. He misses, and Seth rolls him up, but only gets a two count. When he’s pushed off, Cesaro nails him, one of those goddamn European uppercuts he’s so fond of, and Kruger gets him into the sleeper.

Seth tries to get free, tries to reach the ropes, but it’s too much, his vision going black and fuzzy around the edges, and he has to. He taps out. He loses.

Just another day, really.

Once he can see straight, and breathe, and has all the feeling back in his limbs, he rolls out of the ring, and keeps his head down the whole way to the back. Thankfully, nobody tries to talk to him, because he’s not in the mood to be pitied.

It’s just that he’s _better_ than this, and he knows that. Everybody knows that. He’s a good wrestler. He’s a great wrestler. He has what it takes to be champion, and these days he just can’t pick up a fucking _win_. 

Ambrose is outside his locker room. Of course. Seth ignores him, pushing open his door and remembering to grab his bag this time before he storms into the shower. He thinks Ambrose followed him into the locker room, but he’s not sure. He shouldn’t have; Seth is much more likely this time to accept the offer to punch him in the face.

He scrubs himself pink, but he can’t wash away the sting a loss means, no matter how much soap he uses. He washes everything twice just in case. He still has pins and needles in his fingers and toes from the sleeper when he steps back out into the room, dressed and clean and still not FCW champion.

Ambrose is still there. Still doesn’t know when to back off.

“That was bullshit,” Ambrose says quietly. The look on his face is hard to read, and Seth can’t be bothered right now to try and figure it out. “You should’ve had that one.”

“I know I should’ve,” Seth snaps, dropping down into a chair. His was the last match, so he could just leave, but he should probably wait until he’s less angry, at himself, at everything. “It was stupid to attack first. I know.”

“I know you know.” Ambrose sounds thoughtful but Seth can’t imagine what there is to think about right now. 

“That’s like my seventh loss in the past two months,” Seth mumbles, folding his arms and leaning back in the chair. “I’ve been distracted. Out of focus.”

“Yeah.” Seth still can’t get a read on Ambrose, and it’s actually starting to bother him. “Yeah, distracted. You just need, like, a push to get you back on track, right? Remembering what’s important?”

“I know what’s important, I just can’t – seem to pull through when I need to.” Seth rubs a hand over his face. He’s exhausted. “But yeah, I guess. Maybe I do just need a push.” He shakes his head and looks at Ambrose. “What’s with you, anyway? What’s so important about William Regal?”

Something sparks in Ambrose’s eyes. “I need to beat him. I know I can, I just have to do it, and I can’t until he shows his fucking face here, which he won’t, because he knows I can beat him. He’s scared.” A smile curves his lips. It’s a little frightening.

“The one that got away?” Seth can relate to that. That’s what it feels like, anyway, when you get beat by someone you know you’re better than.

“Something like that,” says Ambrose vaguely. “I guess I’ve been distracted, too. But that’s over, now. I’m back on track.”

“I’m very happy for you,” Seth says. He hadn’t been aware that Ambrose was off his game at all. Sure, he lost the match against Regal, but he’s got victories over, well, Seth. Recently, even. 

Ambrose pushes himself off the wall. “I, uh, I hope you get the push you’re looking for. Who knows, right? Who knows what’ll happen?”

“You’re being really weird,” Seth says flat out. Granted, Ambrose is strange on his best days, but right now he’s being downright cryptic, and Seth doesn’t like it. 

That gets him a grin. “My middle name,” he says. “I’m out, I think. I’ll see you next week.”

Seth thinks of offering him a ride again, even though he’s being bizarre, but Ambrose is out the door before he can do more than consider it. He doesn’t know why he was even going to bother, anyway. 

\--

Seth finds out the second he sees the match listing for the next week why Ambrose was being so weird. He stares at it, blinking just in case he’s misreading. No, he’s really in a tag match against Dean Ambrose and Antonio Cesaro. He’s teaming with Abraham Washington, which is also not really something he’s looking forward to, but Ambrose is teaming up with a guy who cost him his rematch for the FCW 15 title.

Of course, Ambrose is the person who cost him the title in the first place. Maybe it makes more sense than Seth wishes it did. 

Maybe he’s the idiot who thought he and Ambrose were okay now. He knows he is, actually, because he and Ambrose have never been friends, have never been anything but enemies who sometimes fuck, and Seth’s the one who should’ve known that.

He and Ambrose are opponents. They always have been. To think they could’ve been anything else was just another lapse in judgment on his part.

For a moment, he thinks about going to Ambrose’s locker room and asking him what the fuck this is all about, but the message has been sent loud and clear. If Ambrose was going to tell Seth why he’s teaming with Cesaro, he would’ve been here to tell him already. He’s not. Seth hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Ambrose since he got here.

Idiot. He’s such an idiot.

“Merry Christmas to me,” he mutters at the match listing.

Seth doesn’t bother to pay attention to the show. The match he’s in is the main event, so he just sits in his locker room and mopes, until it comes to be time to head down to the curtain. 

Ambrose is there.

Dressed to compete, leaning against the wall, he doesn’t look any different from how he normally looks, except he’s looking at Seth, and there’s no hint there that Seth knows what Ambrose looks like when he comes, there’s no inkling of the vague camaraderie Seth had thought they’d had. There’s coldness, and the corner of his mouth is pulled up in a smile that’s more like a smirk.

He’s not anything to Seth other than an opponent. Definitely not a distraction.

“Yeah,” he mutters, watching the way Ambrose’s eyes flick down to read his lips. “Yeah. I get it.”

Ambrose doesn’t come up to him and Seth isn’t expecting him to. Instead, he turns his attention to the monitor, watching the end of the penultimate match. His blood boils when Cesaro comes onscreen, a microphone in his hand.

He starts talking, but Seth doesn’t care what he’s saying. He just wants to fucking hit someone. He barely lets Cesaro get two sentences into his ‘declaration’ before he’s sprinting out and swinging wildly, and Cesaro’s hitting him back and it’s great, it’s fantastic to be able to just fucking fight with someone. He can turn off his thoughts and just land some hits.

He’s not surprised when he turns away from Cesaro and Ambrose is climbing the ring steps, and he’s not going to think about Ambrose’s weird sex quirks, he’s not going to think about how Ambrose has stupid nicknames for him, he just lands a punch before one can be landed on him.

But there are two of them and one of him (Abraham is conveniently missing) and when Cesaro snags his legs it frees Ambrose to take him down. Even though he’d known it was going to happen, it still kind of hurts in a different way from the punches that are being landed.

Cesaro does most of the real hitting, but Ambrose keeps shouting at him, insults from what he can hear over the crowd, until Abraham finally deigns to make his way into the ring.

Weirdly enough, when it’s an actual match, it’s easier for Seth to fight Ambrose. Or, perhaps, not weirdly at all – he’s used to having to occasionally wrestle people he doesn’t hate, used to turning his brain off and just wrestle. With a referee in there it doesn’t feel as strange. He’s focused. He knows what he’s doing.

It’s a good match. They’re good wrestlers, all of them, so it was going to be, but part of Seth was worried that even knowing what he knows, he and Ambrose would have off chemistry somehow. They don’t. They’re just like they always are in the ring: good with each other. He doesn’t think he’s ever had a bad match with Ambrose on the other side of the ring from him. He’s lost, but he hasn’t had a bad match.

Seth sees his opening and takes it when Cesaro stumbles toward the ropes and he’s on the outside, aiming a kick at his head, which connects enough that Abraham can roll him into a pin. A three-count. Seth finally fucking won a match.

It doesn’t feel as good as it should. God damn it.

He plays around with Abraham and his valet – someone new, who introduces herself as Danielle – after the match, but his thoughts are already running away from him again. Somehow, he doesn’t think Ambrose is going to be waiting at his locker room for him this time. He thinks that maybe Ambrose won’t be waiting at his locker room for him ever, and that’s fine. He doesn’t care.

He’s surprised, therefore, to see Ambrose lounging in a chair in his locker room when he opens the door. It takes him a second to close it, narrowed eyes and gritted teeth.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” he asks pointedly.

Ambrose still looks like he had before the match, chewing gum without a care as he levels a cool gaze at Seth. He’s smiling just a little.

“You look upset,” he notes. Mocking. “You finally won a match, Seth, it’s like a Christmas miracle.”

“You’re an asshole,” Seth says, hands on his hips because he doesn’t know where to put them. “Look, I get it, okay? Whatever. Now get out of my locker room.”

It’s like a throwback to months ago, when Seth had said something very similar.

“I just wanted to congratulate you on your win,” says Ambrose, a hand to his chest like he’s hurt that Seth would be so cruel. Dick. “Hard-fought victory.”

“It was,” Seth says in challenge. “A lot harder when one of your opponents attacks you from behind and you get double-teamed before the match starts.”

“That’s why I’m so impressed,” Ambrose replies. He stands, favoring his side. “I would’ve thought you’d crumble under the pressure.”

“What is this about?” Seth asks, finished with dancing around it. “What the fuck happened? Did you hit your head? Am I a terrible lay? Or are you just incapable of not being an asshole for more than twenty minutes at a time?”

Ambrose laughs, a harsh, gritty sound. “You’re really self-centered, has anybody ever told you that?” He saunters closer to Seth, his steps weaving and unbalanced. “Believe it or not, not everything has to be about Seth Rollins. Sometimes,” he pokes Seth in the chest, “sometimes peoples’ lives revolve around things other than making you happy.”

Seth slaps Ambrose’s hand away. “You attacked me while my back was turned,” he grinds out. “Clearly it was about me. There’s no honor in that.”

“What about me has given you the impression that I’m honorable?” Ambrose asks. “I’ve got news for you, Seth: I am _exactly_ who you’ve always thought I was.”

“A pain in my ass?” Seth shoots back. It’s what he’d thought Ambrose was, and he hadn’t noticed until tonight that who he’d thought Ambrose was had been changing. Stupid. Ambrose is right, he’s never pretended to be anything other than a villain. Seth had just been grasping at straws.

“If the shoe fits.” Ambrose dips in a facsimile of a curtsey. “What?” he says, and Seth braces himself because the tone of Ambrose’s voice makes him think whatever he’s about to say is going to hurt. “Did you think you could change me? Did you think you, of all people, could make me _better_?”

“Crazy, right?” Seth hears himself say. “Almost like I thought maybe it was possible for you to have feelings. Should’ve known better. Won’t happen again.”

Something in Ambrose’s expression flickers. Seth hopes he hurt him, but that’d be impossible, wouldn’t it? You’ve got to have feelings first for somebody to hurt them.

“Good,” is what Ambrose says. “Because you’re not going to change me. You’re not that good a fuck,” he bites out, “and I’m not going to be like you, on a losing streak for months at a time because you just couldn’t stop thinking about me.”

Seth swings, but he’s choreographed it and Ambrose ducks out of the way, under Seth’s arm and then past him, between Seth and the door.

“Touchy,” Ambrose says, opening the door. “Not like it meant anything, right?”

And then he’s gone. Seth couldn’t read the look on his face but he’s pretty sure not that one way or another, it fucking meant something. He doesn’t know what, but it meant something. And it meant something to Ambrose, too.


	2. make me fall for you as if i had nothing else to do

Seth doesn’t speak to Dean Ambrose for a month.

It’s not _all_ because he’s ignoring him. His schedule picks up a lot when the WWE tells him they want him to start doing darks on the road with them, and of course, Ambrose is doing them too, because he’s a fucking amazing wrestler. They have matches, but they don’t speak, and Ambrose doesn’t seek him out. Seth doesn’t seek Ambrose out, either. As far as he’s concerned, they don’t really have anything to talk about.

They wrestle. They’re good in the ring together, as always, but apart from in-ring taunts, there’s nothing. It’s just like it was before their whatever-it-was started.

Seth hates it.

He hates that Ambrose seems perfectly fine, he hates that everything’s changed even when nothing has changed, and he hates that he goes back to the locker room after every match knowing that there’s nobody waiting for him. He feel pathetic, thinking about it like that, but he probably _is_ a little pathetic.

He wrestles sporadically for WWE and for FCW, in matches when he can be, when he’s not on the road. And he’s fine. He wasn’t banging Ambrose when he started wrestling and he doesn’t need to be banging Ambrose to wrestle now. It’s just… he kind of misses the unpredictability of it.

He really is fucking pathetic. He still watches Ambrose’s matches whenever he can because he’s pathetic and still clinging to something that never existed.

It’s February the next time Seth has any real interaction with Ambrose apart from arm bars and suplexes. He’s only just arrived to the arena, set his bag in his locker room, and he’s getting ready to check the match listings when there’s a knock on his door.

Part of him still stands at attention every time, but he already knows, opening the door that it’s not going to be Ambrose. It is, however, someone just as unlikely to be there.

“Hey,” he says with a frown, leaning against the door. “What’s up?”

Roman nods at him in greeting. “I don’t know if you’ve seen the matches for tonight,” he says with a hint of inquiry in his tone.

“I was just about to. I’m guessing we’re both in it?” Seth asks, opening the door wider to let Roman inside.

“Triple threat,” Roman replies. “You, me, and Dean Ambrose.”

Well, shit. Of course. Seth clears his throat. “Didn’t you tag with Dean Ambrose recently?”

“A few weeks ago,” says Roman. “Yes. He’s a dick, but you know that better than anybody.”

“I guess I do.” Seth frowns. “Why are you here, Roman?” he asks point blank.

Roman smiles a little. He’s got a good smile. It kind of changes his face. “We’re not allies, and I know you know that. But I did think that we might be… friends. So I just wanted to be clear that I’m not going to hold back, and if I see an opportunity, I’m going to take it. I want a title shot.”

“Is it a number one contender match?” Seth asks. The rest, he would have known anyway. There are no allies but momentary ones in a triple threat match.

“Must’ve forgotten to mention. Yeah, for the heavyweight title,” Roman clarifies. “I don’t have any obligation to Ambrose, but I like you. I just want to make sure that this doesn’t change anything out of the ring.”

“Course not. Every man for himself, right?” Seth offers his hand, and Roman shakes it. “I hope you know I’m gonna leave it all out there.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to do anything else.” Roman gives him another smile. “I’ll see you in the ring.”

After he leaves, Seth takes the opportunity to kick a chair, and then the wall, before he gets changed into his ring gear. This’ll be fine. He should be used to it by now, wrestling Ambrose, but he’s just, he’s not.

He’s the last to the ring for the match, Roman – Leakee now, between these ropes – and Ambrose already waiting. This’ll be a hard match, triple threats always are, but Seth wants another title shot. A fair one this time, without Cesaro screwing it up.

Ambrose starts the match by slinking over to the turnbuckle and climbing it to stare at the commentary booth. Is – oh, that explains it. William Regal is sitting there, smiling back at Ambrose like a snake, and Ambrose is shouting at Regal, challenging him. William Regal isn’t in this match, and Ambrose is turning his back on both of his opponents, and he knows better than that. Leakee makes him pay for it, yanking him down off the turnbuckle and knocking him for a loop before Seth gets him out of the ring.

He and Leakee dance around each other before they lock up, and holy fuck, Seth’s forgotten how strong Leakee is. He manhandles Seth like he’s a bag of sugar, knocking him flat on his back, but Seth still has quickness on his side.

Once Ambrose is back in the ring, and it’s his turn to get thrown around, Seth gets a breather – and then something weird happens. Leakee’s down and Ambrose and Seth are both up and when Leakee bounces off the ropes, Seth moves automatically to do a hip toss, only Ambrose has done the same thing on the other side.

It doesn’t work, and Leakee just smashes both of their faces into the mat, but then it kind of happens again. Leakee is down and they’re both up and then Ambrose isn’t hitting him anymore. He’s watching Seth with a fist in the air ready to strike if he has to.

It only takes Seth a second to think through. Leakee’s got fifty pounds on both of them, and it’s mostly muscle. He’s the biggest guy in the match. If they can take him out between the two of them, that’s eliminating the biggest threat.

Ambrose looks from Seth to Leakee and back again. Then he makes this movement with his face, a sort of _shall we?_ and Seth thinks, okay.

He and Ambrose both rush Leakee in the corner, Seth with kicks, Ambrose with fists. Ambrose holds Leakee’s arms, to let Seth pummel him, and Seth will feel bad about it later. Right now he’s got a match to try to win.

Seth expects that alliance to implode much like everything else about him and Ambrose did, but it doesn’t. It works, and Seth returns the favor, holding Leakee’s arms back and letting Ambrose get his shots in. It’s a triple threat match, Seth keeps reminding himself. Get the biggest threat out of the way. Leakee had to know he’d be the biggest target going into this. There are no friends in a triple threat match.

He keeps expecting to get attacked from behind when Ambrose sees a chance, and Seth is ready for it, but he turns his back on Ambrose a few times, and nothing happens. Ambrose just waits for Seth to move out of the way and then gets his own hits in.

They’re working like a team that’s worked together for years. Seth’s thought a lot about how he and Ambrose work well as opponents, but this is the first time he’s really thought about how well they might work together as a team.

At one point, with Leakee in the corner, Ambrose holds a finger at Seth, a clear _wait, watch this_ before he barrels into the corner, hitting a clothesline. In response, Seth shakes his head, then does a little something of his own, jumping into the corner with a forearm shot.

 _Not bad_ is what Ambrose’s expression says. It’s like weird competitive flirting. Seth has no idea what’s going on. He likes it, a little.

That’s when it happens. Ambrose clotheslines him over the top rope, finally, like Seth was expecting to happen ten minutes ago. He can’t even blame him for it; Seth was about to do the same.

It’s just a triple threat match after that. Seth does a few of the moves Ambrose would call ‘flippy pretty shit’ and they exchange pin attempts, and Ambrose puts the Regal Stretch on Leakee, trying to get to William Regal yet again. This obsession with William Regal isn’t going to turn out well. Seth can tell that already.

Pin attempt after pin attempt, never anything more than a two-count. Ambrose, during one attempt, slips just enough that he’s got his ass on Seth’s face. Seth’s pretty sure he slipped, anyway. He wouldn’t put it past Ambrose to have done it on purpose.

He slips up again, though. Takes too much time taunting Regal, getting ready to deliver that knee, and Seth has time enough to reverse it.

It’s just him and Ambrose, Leakee outside the ring, when Ambrose finally connects with the knee long enough to make Seth loopy, and he gets Seth up on his shoulders but it’s Leakee who delivers the final blow, a stacked Samoan Drop that leaves Seth rolling underneath the bottom rope. Before he can catch his breath, Leakee’s music is playing. He pinned Ambrose.

Well, good for him. Seth doesn’t think Leakee’s ever had a title shot, and Seth likes him more than he likes Kruger. He hopes Leakee wins it, even if it’d make winning the title after that harder. 

Ambrose is still flat in the middle of the ring when Seth gets to his feet, stumbling to the back. His head is killing him. If Regal’s knee is any more powerful than Ambrose’s, Seth never wants to know.

He showers like he always does, turning the water on hot enough that his headache starts to ease. He thinks there might be a bruise starting on his temple.

Somehow, he’s not expecting it this time when he pads into the main room in shorts and Ambrose is sitting on the floor in front of his door. Seth pauses, then continues drying his hair. 

“You need something?” he asks, like this happens every day.

Ambrose has the gall to look surprised, like he has no idea whose locker room he’s in. Then he frowns. “I lost,” he says.

“Yeah, so did I.” Seth snorts. “What do you want, Ambrose?”

“We make a good team,” Ambrose says, rubbing a hand through his hair. He’s still in his ring gear, sweaty and disheveled. “We work well together.”

“It was a triple threat. Logic says to get the biggest man out of the way first.” Seth shoves his damp towel into his bag to have something to do with his hands. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Nothing more, nothing less,” Ambrose repeats slowly. “Right. We worked well together.”

“You said that already,” Seth points out. “Did my foot hit your head too hard out there?”

Ambrose shakes his head. He’s moving slowly, speaking slowly. Seth frowns, actually concerned and wishing he wasn’t. 

“You should probably go to get checked out,” he says, keeping his own voice as uncaring as he can. “You’re being even weirder than usual.”

“Do you think I’m a better wrestler than William Regal?” Ambrose asks, his head tipped up to look at Seth. He’s still on the floor. Seth wonders if maybe he should offer him a seat, but Ambrose isn’t the type to let pesky things like permission stop him. If he wanted to be sitting in a chair, he would be. For some reason, he wants to be on the floor.

“I think William Regal probably wouldn’t have gotten distracted by someone outside the ring when he was in the middle of a match,” Seth says, but as he watches Ambrose deflate, something prods him to add, “But in general, yeah. I think you’re a better wrestler than Regal. When you’re on your game.”

“I want to beat him,” Ambrose mumbles. “I have to beat him. Why won’t he fight me? Why won’t he accept my challenge? Is he scared of me?”

“Everybody’s scared of you,” replies Seth. He sighs. Apparently Ambrose has decided to have some sort of breakdown, and it just had to be in Seth’s locker room. Carefully (he doesn’t know much about this kind of thing but he’s pretty sure sudden movements are out), he slides down to sit cross-legged on the floor opposite Ambrose.

“Good,” Ambrose spits, but it just sounds kind of pitiful when he’s all curled in on himself. “They should be. I’m the biggest monster most of them will ever meet.”

“I met a tiger once, on a field trip when I was a kid,” Seth comments. He shakes his head. He’s losing his goddamn mind along with Ambrose. “If you can beat William Regal, why haven’t you?”

“He won’t face me!” Ambrose exclaims, suddenly louder than he was. “I did what I had to! I got rid of everything that was distracting me, I’m ready now and he still won’t fight me!”

Something about what Ambrose just said doesn’t sit right. He narrows his eyes. “You got rid of everything that was distracting you?” he repeats flatly.

“I did!” says Ambrose. For someone with such long legs, he’s managed to contain himself to a very small amount of space. “I made sure I was ready, I made sure all I was thinking about was fighting him, beating him. I made it _everything_.”

“Why does it matter to you so much?” Seth asks. “Beating him? You’ve lost to people before.”

“I’m better than him.” It looks like that’s all Ambrose knows how to say anymore. “I can beat him. I wasn’t thinking straight, I didn’t have my head in the game, but if he’d _face me again, I could beat him_.” He raises his voice again like he thinks Regal’s waiting outside listening. Seth wouldn’t put it past him to really think that.

To be honest, he wouldn’t really put it past Regal to do it, either.

“But it didn’t work,” Ambrose continues. “He won’t face me, so it was all for nothing, all the lost sleep and the training and getting rid of everything that mattered, it doesn’t _mean_ anything if he won’t _face me_.”

“Getting rid of everything that mattered,” Seth repeats again. “You fucking asshole, you did it on purpose, didn’t you?”

It’s all making sense now, and not the kind of sense he’d forced it to make, the box he’d shoved it into because he didn’t want to think about it anymore. It makes the kind of sense that, well, only somebody like Ambrose would actually think was sensible.

“I’m a fucking idiot, I did exactly what you wanted me to,” he says. Ambrose is less out of it now, or maybe he never was and he just wanted Seth to think he was. He’s apparently good at getting Seth to think whatever he wants. He’s looking at him straight on now, frowning, cautious.

“What are you talking about?” Ambrose asks. It’s barely a question.

“ _I’m_ the distraction,” Seth says. It’s glaringly obvious now that he’s putting all the pieces together. “It’s me, you got rid of _me_ because you thought it’d make you more focused.”

“We’ve talked about your ego problem,” says Ambrose. He’s not even bothering to pretend anymore; though he’s still curled into a ball, his eyes are sharp and clear. “Not everything is about you, Seth.”

“No,” Seth agrees easily. “Not even this, really. It’s all about your obsession with beating William Regal and how far you’re willing to push yourself to make it happen. You’d sacrifice anything, wouldn’t you?”

A smile twists Ambrose’s lips. “Already have. It didn’t do any good.”

“So why now?” Seth asks, his hands moving wildly in the air to convey… something. He’s not sure. He’s angry. “Why come around now, then, if you’re so determined not to be distracted?”

“Look, I don’t do this.” Ambrose sounds angry now, too. Good. Seth knows how to deal with angry. “I don’t, I don’t get distracted, and I don’t mess up. I don’t make mistakes. I don’t let people get to me, and _you got to me_. You broke all my rules, Seth, and you didn’t even apologize.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” Seth says, making sure to pack as much sarcasm into it as he can. “I’m so sorry, Ambrose, I’m sorry I screwed up _your_ life.”

Ambrose moves finally, bracing his palms on Seth’s thighs as he leans forward.

“How am I supposed to focus on beating Regal when all I can think about is you?” he asks. This close, when he’s touching Seth, Seth can feel the shake in his hands. 

“You told me it didn’t mean anything,” Seth says. “That I was thinking about it too hard.”

“You’re the one who didn’t want it to mean anything,” Ambrose replies. “It, it meant something. To me.”

It sounds like it hurts him, to say it – Seth’s pretty sure it almost doesn’t make it out of Ambrose’s mouth, a hesitation before and a pause in the middle.

“Why?” is all Seth can think to ask. His chest feels tight, and he’s not sure if he’s really talking because his lips are numb. “Why is it okay for it to mean something now when it wasn’t before?”

“Because it doesn’t matter anymore.” Ambrose’s voice is rising and falling again. “It doesn’t matter, because he won’t fight me anyway. I gave up everything and he can’t even give me a match.”

“What if he does?” Seth asks. He can’t believe he’s actually talking about this with Ambrose, on the floor of his locker room. “What if he decides to give you the match you want? Is it gonna suddenly not mean anything again? Am I gonna get to the arena and find out you’re teaming up with someone else I hate?”

“It won’t happen,” Ambrose mutters. “He won’t wrestle me. He’s afraid of me because he knows I could end him without thinking twice.”

“Probably,” Seth agrees. It wouldn’t surprise him. Regal’s good, but he’s nearing the end of his career, and the man has to know it. Ambrose, on a good day, could probably finish it off for him. “But if he wanted it. If Maxine came to you and told you that Regal wanted another match, would you get rid of all your distractions again?”

Ambrose is frowning at him, and slowly shaking his head, but he says, “I need to beat him,” quietly. “I have to beat him. You know I have to beat him.”

“Yeah,” mutters Seth. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

“You _get_ me.” Ambrose still has his hands on Seth, a tight grip on his thighs. “You get me.”

“I definitely don’t get you,” Seth replies. He wants to move back, get Ambrose out of his space a little, but that would feel too much like losing a game.

“You do,” insists Ambrose. “Or you try to, and it’s the same thing, anyway. Nobody else tries.”

“I didn’t want to try,” Seth says. He sets his hands on Ambrose’s, to move them, but instead his hands just stay there on top of his. “I wanted to hate you.”

Ambrose smiles, a twitchy thing that looks like it might collapse at any moment. “You like me too much to hate me.”

“Are you guessing?” Seth looks down, watches the way Ambrose’s fingers look underneath his, waiting for Ambrose’s answer.

Ambrose is silent for a long moment, then he says, with the barest hint of confession, “Hoping.”

He’s good at faking sincerity, is Ambrose. Seth knows that, and he knows that Ambrose could be doing that now. He could be lying to get into Seth’s good – or at least out of his bad – graces, for some reason only he knows. Seth should really tell him to get out of his locker room.

He wouldn’t listen, because he’s Dean Ambrose and he never listens to Seth when his dick’s not in the picture, but Seth should at least tell him to leave.

But he’s pathetic, and he’s been miserable for a month, and Ambrose is the worst kind of distraction that he doesn’t need, and Seth missed him. He doesn’t know why, but he missed Ambrose.

“I want,” he starts and stops. He licks his dry lips. “I’m not gonna. I don’t know if.”

“Did my knee hit your head too hard out there?” Ambrose’s lips quirk into a smile as he parrots Seth’s own words back to him. He still looks nervous. Seth’s never seen him look nervous before. He uses cockiness as a shield, and even when he _is_ nervous (because Seth has no doubt he has been) he just turns the arrogance up, as high as it’ll go, to make people think he isn’t.

“We both know that the second Regal wants a rematch with you, you’re there,” says Seth finally, the words forming in his mouth right. “And you’re going to do the same thing: you’re going to get rid of all your distractions. And I know you’re not going to stop asking for that rematch.”

“I have to—“

“I know, you have to beat him,” Seth interrupts. He has to say this whole thing. “And yeah, I get that, okay? I get that now. But let’s not pretend it’s anything but temporary when we both know it’s going to be. He’s going to give you a rematch. It’s a matter of time.”

“He’s too scared to face me,” says Ambrose. He sounds uncertain.

“Or maybe he’s waiting for you to actually lose your mind,” Seth replies. “Regal’s been doing this a long time. He knows how to get into peoples’ heads. He’s obviously gotten into yours.”

Ambrose makes a noise like a disgruntled horse, but says nothing.

“I’m not saying – I don’t know what _this_ ,“ Seth motions between them, “is, but if we do this, whatever we’re talking about doing, it’s over the second he agrees to another match with you.” He swallows, his hands dropping from Ambrose’s. “I’m not going to be a distraction you have to get rid of. Got it?”

The way Ambrose is looking at him makes him uncomfortable. It’s an odd combination of confusion and affection, and it makes Seth’s insides squirm.

“Yeah. Yeah, I got it,” Ambrose says. “Not a distraction.”

“Okay.” Seth’s mouth is still dry. “Okay. Good.”

They sit there in silence for a minute or two, Ambrose still hunched forward closer to Seth. Seth’s ass is falling asleep.

“Fuck it,” Ambrose mutters all of a sudden, and then he surges forward, his momentum toppling both of them over, and he’s kissing Seth so hard that Seth thinks his lip might’ve split.

It’s been a long time since Seth’s kissed Ambrose (since he’s kissed anyone; if he’s being honest, he kissed the last person that he kissed a month ago) and it’s as good as it always is, hard to keep up with and harder than Seth should like. Ambrose is still sweaty and disgusting from the match but Seth gets a hand behind his neck and pulls him in closer than should be possible.

“I missed you,” Ambrose mutters into his mouth, so mumbled and quiet that Seth thinks maybe he wasn’t supposed to hear it. He swallows Ambrose’s words and pulls again, until he’s flat on his back with Ambrose a solid weight on top of him.

Or maybe he was supposed to hear it, because Ambrose stops kissing him, which is a travesty in itself, to put a hand in the middle of Seth’s chest and hold him there, leaning away. He’s looking at Seth intently, and Seth’s not sure what to make of it.

“What?” he asks. He liked it better when there was kissing.

“We made a good team,” Ambrose says, the length of his body pressed tightly to Seth’s. How he expects Seth to have a conversation right now, he has no idea. “In the match,” he clarifies. “We made a good team.”

“You clotheslined me over the top rope,” Seth reminds him, settling a hand on Ambrose’s hip, at the edge of his trunks.

“You kicked me in the head a bunch,” Ambrose counters, like it’s a competition.

“You _kneed_ me in the head,” Seth reminds him. “Really hard.”

“You pulled my hair,” says Ambrose, frowning down at him. Frowning, or pouting. It’s hard to tell.

“You put your ass on my face,” Seth replies as his trump card, “during a pin attempt.”

He’s expecting Ambrose to argue some more, but instead, he just grins at Seth, grinding down against him and leaning in to kiss him again, open-mouthed and dirty before he says, “Wanna return the favor?”

“What?” Seth asks, startled and confused. Ambrose is still just smiling at him. “Uh, no. What?”

“Come on, princess,” Ambrose wheedles. “I feel, you know, really bad. About doing that to you. Lemme kiss and make it better.”

“What are you talking about?” Seth’s pretty sure he’s actually started blushing, which is even more embarrassing.

“It’ll feel really good, I promise.” Ambrose pats Seth’s chest. “Seriously. Seriously. Let me.”

He seems enthused by the idea now, sitting back on his heels and looking hopefully at him, tucking his fingers into the front of Seth’s shorts. Even though he’s showered, like, as recently as it’s possible to shower, Seth’s still squirmy at the idea of -- _that_ \-- and he can’t tell if it’s in a good way or just in a self-conscious, embarrassed way.

“Why, why would you want to?” Seth asks, leaning up onto his elbows. “What do you get out of that?”

Ambrose looks at him like he’s an idiot. “I get to make you feel really good?” he says. “I want to. Flip over.”

Seth hesitates still. He hasn’t gotten less hard during this conversation, oddly, so apparently his dick’s super into the thought of it happening. Ambrose is clearly super into the thought of it happening.

“I mean, you could probably stay like that if you want,” Ambrose comments, looking him over with a critical eye. “You’re pretty flexible. I could work with it.”

Seth is sure of at least one thing: he definitely does not want to be able to see Ambrose during this. “No, no,” he says, and Ambrose looks disappointed until Seth continues, “I’ll, uh, I can flip over.”

He shimmies out of his shorts and over onto his stomach before he can second-guess himself, taking a deep breath and then lifting himself onto his knees.

“This okay?” he asks. He shouldn’t turn his back on Ambrose, especially not while he’s naked, especially not when they just finished a match against each other.

He feels more vulnerable than he’s used to, able to feel Ambrose’s eyes on him. Exposed, sort of. But Ambrose sets a hand at the base of his spine, and the contact makes it easier, less like Seth is putting himself out there.

“Yeah,” Ambrose says. His voice sounds weird, and he clears his throat. “Yeah, yeah, fuckin’ perfect.”

He shuffles closer, from the sound of it (Seth’s reconsidering this position; it’s even more nervewracking when he can’t tell where Ambrose is going to be) and nudges Seth’s legs apart with his knee. “Yeah,” he says again, quietly, and then he kisses Seth’s lower back. Seth jumps, a little, at the feeling, then braces himself.

One of Ambrose’s hands settles on Seth’s hip, the other touching him carefully, which isn’t a word Seth’s used to associating with Ambrose. Ambrose’s thumb touches him, a gentle press, like he’s letting Seth know where he is. Nice of him.

He kisses Seth’s tailbone again, then just below that, and Seth is unable to keep a noise from escaping when Ambrose’s mouth reaches its destination.

If Seth doesn’t think about it too hard, it feels really, really, really good. Ambrose doesn’t just dive right in, instead smudging soft kisses against Seth, but the first press of his tongue is like an electric shock. Seth makes a strangled sound, and Ambrose stops, leans away.

“Y’okay?” he asks. His voice is low and croaky again.

Seth’s not sure whether he qualifies as okay or not, but he nods, regardless. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “I’m good.”

“Good.” Ambrose bites one of his asscheeks, and Seth jumps again. “Just relax a little.”

He doesn’t go in gently this time, all soft warm mouth and tongue against Seth’s hole. Seth’s had fingers there, but he’s never had somebody’s mouth there and all of a sudden he’s really questioning why, because there are stars, actual fucking stars bursting in his vision and his arms won’t hold him up anymore.

Seth just kind of slumps, his arms a pillow for his face, and when Ambrose laughs against him, he struggles to catch his breath. It’s a lot, a lot all at once, and Seth’s not sure why he’d hesitated to do this. It’s fucking amazing, glorious, mindblowing. Ambrose’s mouth is so wet that Seth’s pretty sure he can feel spit dripping down his balls, and Ambrose’s tongue should be outlawed for the ways it’s tracing over Seth in little figure eights.

He finds that he’s rocking his hips backwards, and that would be embarrassing if Ambrose wasn’t obviously leaning back every so often to get Seth to do it. His mouth will move away and Seth will, without meaning to, release a muffled whimpery sound and move back against air until Ambrose’s mouth is there again.

Ambrose is saying things, muttering when his mouth isn’t occupied, and Seth strains to hear him over, well, the sounds coming out of his mouth that he can’t keep locked inside.

“Just like that,” Ambrose is murmuring, “yeah, like that, fucking gorgeous, want you to ride my mouth, okay, lemme make you feel good—“

– and Seth has to stop listening for his own health. 

He feels wet and messy and taken apart, his cock hard against his stomach. Ambrose presses a finger into him, and it slides right in; that’s how wet he is. Ambrose keeps licking around his finger, too, wet sucking kisses that Seth feels in his fucking _soul_.

“Opening right up for me,” says Ambrose, raspy and teasing like he’s been eating sandpaper. “Look at how wet you are now, fuck.”

He talks too much, and Seth can’t even form the words to reply to him, tingling from his head to his toes. One of Ambrose’s hands reaches around to grip his dick, and Seth bites on his wrist to keep from shouting. 

It’s just Ambrose’s mouth again now, and his hand on Seth’s cock, and Seth feels like microwaved Silly Putty, like gummy bears left on the dash of a car in mid-July, boneless and brainless. He has to whine, quietly, when Ambrose’s tongue pushes inside of him, slick and easy, and still so wet, Seth half wants Ambrose to just fuck him, to see if he could, to see if Ambrose’s cock can fuck him as easy as his tongue can.

He doesn’t say it. He comes close, when Ambrose lets go of his cock to use his hands and spread Seth open wider, get his tongue in deeper, but he doesn’t say it. Mostly, if he’s being honest, because at that point he’s incapable of human speech.

Maybe he doesn’t need to say it. Ambrose bites him again, and gets a hand back around Seth’s cock as he pushes two fingers inside him, deep and firm, and Seth’s vision flashes pure fucking white when he comes, caught between riding Ambrose’s fingers and fucking his hand. Ambrose is saying something else, but Seth can’t hear him, his ability to hear thrown somewhere in the atmosphere to meet his common sense for lunch.

When he comes to (did he actually faint? Did Ambrose’s tongue just make him pass out?) he’s slumped on the floor, his ass still in the air, but Ambrose isn’t behind him anymore. He’s stretched out beside him, watching Seth’s face. When he sees Seth’s eyes are open, he grins at him.

“Told you,” he says, smug.

Seth would tell him to fuck off, but when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is, “Ffffuuooooog.”

“As always, I’m impressed by your eloquent nature,” Ambrose says. He’s trying for casual, but he’s short of breath, and his mouth is still wet as hell, and his trunks are tented obviously. Seth can fix at least one of those things.

“Come here,” he manages to say, though his words still slur together at the edges. He leans up onto an elbow that barely supports his weight, and when he moves his legs, he can feel the mess between them. He doesn’t blush again, but it’s a close thing. He is a grown man. He will not be embarrassed for enjoying himself.

Curious, Ambrose raises his eyebrows at Seth. “Why?” he asks, already shuffling himself closer.

Seth answers by tugging on the waistband of Ambrose’s trunks, pulling them low enough that his cock springs out, hard and beading wet at the tip. He thinks about why Ambrose is so hard, considers how it’s because he liked what he was doing to Seth so much, and shoves that thought into a separate box in his brain. He’s created a lot of boxes in his brain just for things that Ambrose makes him realize.

“Oh,” Ambrose breathes, when Seth leans his face into Ambrose’s lap. He’s good at this, when he has his mind in the right place.

Seth pushes his face against Ambrose’s stomach, inhaling the sharp smell of sweat and, vaguely, detergent, his tongue slipping out to press to the jut of Ambrose’s hip. Ambrose breathes in hard, his hand resting on Seth’s head, and he leans back against the wall to give Seth more room.

His limbs still aren’t moving to the best of his ability, but he doesn’t need to move his legs to use his mouth. He’s never done this to Ambrose; most of the time it’s Ambrose initiating the contact, testing Seth’s boundaries. He’d expect Ambrose to be pushier about this.

Or maybe not. When his dick’s involved, Ambrose seems to like being pushed more than he likes doing the pushing.

At the first touch of Seth’s mouth, Ambrose makes a guttural sound that’s between a groan and a whine. Seth smiles at that before he mouths against the side of Ambrose’s cock, his tongue tracing a line up until he reaches the head. He lowers his mouth around it and purses his lips to tighten the seal before he sucks.

Ambrose’s fingers are twisted into Seth’s hair, and he’s breathing fast. “Look good,” he murmurs. “Like that, you look good. I should keep you like this all the time.”

Seth rolls his eyes and gives Ambrose’s thigh a pinch for good measure. 

It is good, though. Seth has blown people who were awful at getting their cock sucked. They’d pull his hair or push on his head, and one time a guy in high school had actually come on his face, without asking, without warning. Just pulled back and let loose, right in Seth’s eye.

Ambrose isn’t doing any of that. His hand’s in Seth’s hair but he’s not pulling, and he’s not shoving his head to and fro. He’s not obnoxiously loud, but he’s not creepily silent, either, mumbling something-or-other under his breath, his head tipped back against the wall. Seth would strain to hear what he’s saying, but he’s already heard the kind of things Ambrose is likely to say, earlier, and his dick is still sensitive from coming the first time.

He even gets a warning before Ambrose comes, a slight tightening of the hand in his hair and then Ambrose taps the side of Seth’s neck. When Seth looks up at him, Ambrose’s neck is arched, the tendons on it standing out. Seth braces himself for the spurt of wet warmth that hits the back of his throat, and swallows it, touching his tongue to the corner of his mouth to make sure he didn’t drip any down his face once he pulls off.

Seth’s pretty sure he’s never going to get used to the taste. Comes with the territory. Wrestlers in particular seem to taste _awful_. He’s pretty sure it’s the high protein intake, in which case, well, Ambrose swallowed his. It’s only polite to do the same in return.

“Was that a thank you?” Ambrose asks. He sounds a little groggy, a little confused.

Seth shrugs. “Being polite?”

Ambrose laughs. It’s not his weird giggly cackle, either. It’s just a laugh, quiet and amused. “Polite, huh?”

“Yeah.” Seth can’t help smiling, shuffling backwards into an actual sitting position. “Like holding a door open for somebody.”

“Well, feel free to hold my door open anytime.” Ambrose gives him a lecherous look, not even moving to tuck himself back into his trunks.

“I think you’ve got that covered, actually.” Seth searches for his shorts and tugs them on. He’s sweaty now, and his ass was sticking to the cold floor in a really unpleasant way. He kind of – squelches, when he moves, and he has to cough to keep a flush from sneaking up the back of his neck.

“Yeah, well, I’ll hold your door open anytime, too.” Ambrose deliberately licks his lips, when Seth is looking, and it’s ridiculous, over-the-top, and not at all hot.

Seth has to use a chair to help himself get to his feet, his knees wobbly. He can have a fifteen minute match on a bad knee just fine, but put someone’s tongue in his ass and he can barely stand straight.

Ambrose seems content to remain sprawled on Seth’s floor. For the moment, Seth lets him, digging in his bag for a shirt and pulling on the first one he grabs. He doesn’t realize which one it is until he notices Ambrose peering at him with a weird look on his face.

“It’s weird,” Ambrose comments, still looking at the ancient Jimmy Jacobs shirt that Seth’s had since probably 1943 when Jimmy gave him twelve of the things. “That we never wrestled, you know? Before. Considering.”

Seth’s thought about that before, too. They know all the same people, have competed in a lot of the same companies, but until they both came here, they’d never set foot in a ring together.

He’s seen Ambrose’s matches against Jimmy, under a different name, in a different place, brutal things that Jimmy’d told him were some of the hardest matches he’d been through as a competitor.

“Weird, yeah,” he says, tugging down the hem. “Guess it happened when it happened.”

Ambrose gives him another weird smile, his eyes far away. “I don’t think you would’ve liked me then, though.”

“I don’t like you now,” Seth replies. Ambrose snorts. Seth guesses he deserved that. He’s generally not in the habit of letting people he doesn’t like see what his asshole tastes like.

“I’m glad it was here, is all,” Ambrose says, finally putting his dick away and getting to his feet. He’s using the wall to help himself up. He scratches his stomach. “You gonna give me a ride?” he asks. The trip to the past is clearly over.

“Back to the hotel,” he clarifies before Seth can respond. He’s grinning again. “We can wait ‘til later for the ride on your—“

“Just for that, I’m leaving you here,” Seth interrupts, swinging his bag over his shoulder. Ambrose doesn’t look like he believes it for a second. “You’re still in your gear, anyway.”

Ambrose sighs heavily, and Seth’s pretty sure he actually rolls his eyes. “Two minutes,” he insists, and then he’s out the door.

“I’m not waiting for you!” Seth shouts after him, but somehow he finds himself taking the extra-slow, roundabout path to get to the parking lot from his locker room, anyway.

\--

If Seth was expecting to see Ambrose more often now that they’re not – it wasn’t fighting, not really – now that they’re speaking again, he’s sorely mistaken. Neither of them are scheduled to compete the next week.

Seth doesn’t mind when he gets weeks off, usually. He gets paid well either way, but he genuinely loves wrestling, and being out of the ring for that long isn’t good for him. He gets antsy, and training in a ring is no good unless you have somebody to spar with.

The second week with a call telling him he doesn’t need to be there finds him sighing, watching the muted television playing a show he doesn’t care about. He wants, _needs_ to get in the ring with somebody. He’s not built for downtime. 

He doubts Ambrose is, either. There’s nothing like getting into the ring with someone. You can do all the weight training and cardio you want, but when it comes down to it, the best way to keep in wrestling shape is to wrestle.

Ambrose was off the show last week, too. Of course, he might be on the show tonight, but if he’s not… No, Seth’s not thinking straight. Ambrose probably does have a match tonight, anyway. And even if he didn’t, he wouldn’t want to spend his day off sparring with Seth. Probably.

Shit. Shit, shit, now he’s actually thinking about it. He knows where Ambrose’s room is, had watched him last time he gave him a ride all the way inside. If he wanted, he could go knock. See if Ambrose wants to hit the gym with him.

Seth can’t believe he’s actually considering doing this. This is what too many days off has done to him.

He’s not gonna do it. He isn’t going to.

God damn it.

Seth gets dressed for a workout anyway. Even if Ambrose doesn’t answer the door, or if he thinks Seth’s a freak for asking, he’ll be able to get _something_ in for the day, at least.

The walk to Ambrose’s door takes seconds, but Seth stares at it for at least a minute, deliberating. This feels different. He’s never sought out Ambrose outside of the arena. It seems like a _step_ , like something new that makes this different from how it was before. He’s thinking about this too hard, like he thinks about everything too hard. Ambrose tells him that enough.

“Fuck it, right?” he mutters under his breath, rapping the backs of his knuckles against the door.

In the minute it takes for Ambrose to answer the door, Seth considers just leaving, getting into his car and going to the gym before he can make this weird. But he’s in it for the long haul, and he just hitches his gym bag farther up his shoulder and waits.

Ambrose is wearing shorts. That’s kind of weird, but Seth’s almost positive it’s weirder that he noticed.

“Hey,” he says. Ambrose looks a little surprised to see him, but leans against the doorframe instead of asking what he’s doing there. That’s a start. “You scheduled for tonight?”

Ambrose doesn’t respond immediately, instead looking Seth up and down and folding his arms across his chest.

“Nope,” he says, drawing out the vowel. “Guessing you’re not, either?”

“Nah.” Seth shrugs. “What can you do?”

“Their loss, right?” Ambrose says. “Combined we’re probably the reason half the audience watches that show.”

Seth makes a noncommittal noise. There’s a lot of talent on that roster, but… maybe it’s being around Ambrose too long, he privately kind of agrees. They’re two of the best.

“I was gonna see if you might want to hit the gym with me,” Seth says. There. It’s out now, and Ambrose is free to accept or decline. “I haven’t wrestled anyone in weeks and it’s kind of killing me.”

“I know the feeling,” Ambrose admits. He pushes himself off the frame. “Yeah, sure. Lemme get my gear.”

He promptly disappears back into the room and Seth blinks stupidly at the half-closed door. Well, that was way easier than he thought it’d be.

Ambrose didn’t even close the door behind him. Is that an invitation? Is Seth invited in? Should he go in? Will Ambrose be upset if he does? Will Ambrose be upset if he _doesn’t_?

Seth doesn’t get a chance to find out before Ambrose is traipsing out the door, shutting it behind him.

“Cena’s?” Ambrose asks casually, like this is something they do all the time. Well, if he’s not going to make a big deal out of it, Seth won’t, either.

“Think so,” Seth confirms. “Unless you had somewhere different in mind.”

“Nah. I like it there.” When Seth looks at him weird, Ambrose wrinkles his nose. “What? I’m allowed to like stuff.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t,” Seth replies. “I just figured Cena wouldn’t be, uh… your kind of guy, that’s all.”

Ambrose snorts. “Don’t have to talk to the guy to use his gym. And, y’know, he doesn’t have to, I guess. He doesn’t have to let us use the place but he does.”

“He’s a nice guy.” Seth digs his keys out of the side pocket of his bag and unlocks his car. 

“You’d think so,” Ambrose shoots back. Before Seth can figure out if that’s an insult or a compliment (he’s thinking insult), Ambrose is ducking into the car.

The door to the gym is unlocked when they get there, which means somebody’s there already, probably one of the guys Cena likes a lot who all have keys of their own. Cena’s on the road, so it’s not him.

Whoever it is, they’re going to see that he and Ambrose are here together, and Seth’s not sure how he feels about that. He’s doubly unsure of how to feel about it when he gets into the building, Ambrose right behind him, and the only other person there is Roman. 

At the sound of the door opening, Roman turns to see who’s there, and as Seth watches, his face goes through a myriad of emotions. A slight smile at first, when he sees Seth, and then confusion, probably when Ambrose comes in after him. Slightly narrowed eyes, then a frown, and finally raised eyebrows.

“Afternoon,” he says to Seth. “You’re keeping some strange company.”

“You’re too sweet.” Ambrose nudges Seth out of the way, setting his bag on one of the weight benches. When he bends to unzip it, he turns his head toward Seth, giving him a questioning look. Seth shrugs helplessly and Ambrose huffs a laugh through his nose, rolling his eyes.

“Figures,” he mumbles, pulling his shirt off over his head. He drops into a stretch without saying anything else.

Roman looks at Seth, then at Ambrose, then back at Seth, raising his eyebrows again. Seth shrugs, again, and puts his own bag on a different bench.

He’s not really surprised when Roman gets up from the weights and makes his way over to Seth. He starts stretching anyway.

“I like you,” Roman says under his breath. He clearly doesn’t trust Ambrose and Seth doesn’t blame him. “So I’m gonna do you the decency of not assuming you two had a plan going into our triple threat, and that was all mid-match alliances. ‘Cause I don’t think you’re that kind of guy. I could believe it of him, but I like you.”

It’s not actually farfetched, is the thing. Seth would probably think that too, if he was Roman, that he and Ambrose were in cahoots the whole time, after they double-teamed him most of the match and now this.

“There was no plan,” he says. He looks Roman in the eye, unwavering. “You were the biggest guy in the match, and it made sense to double team you. Just the nature of the beast when it comes to triple threats.”

“Mm,” says Roman. Seth’s not sure if he believes him or not. His face is blank. He’s probably a hell of a poker player. “You seem pretty buddy-buddy,” he observes. It doesn’t sound quite like an accusation.

“We’re…” Seth trails off. Truth be told, he has no idea what he and Ambrose are. They’re not quite friends and not quite enemies. “… not buddies,” he concludes. “You have my word on that. I didn’t go into that match with any kind of plan. It was very in-the-moment.”

Roman nods, accepting. He grasps Seth’s shoulder and offers his other hand. “I don’t know what you’re mixed up in with him,” he says, his voice even lower, his lips barely moving. Seth’s gaze moves over his shoulder to see Ambrose doing a very poor job of pretending he’s not straining to hear. “But be careful. Take care of yourself, man, okay?”

“I appreciate the thought,” Seth says carefully. He extends his own hand to shake Roman’s, and as he watches, Ambrose scowls, grabbing a towel from his bag and stalking off toward the rogue rings. “I think I can handle myself, though. I know what I’m doing.”

It’s partially a lie, because in so many (most, all) ways, he has no idea what he’s doing with Ambrose. But he does know that he likes it, when it’s good, when Ambrose behaves like a normal person.

Roman looks dubious. “Whatever you say, bro. It’s your back. Try not to get it stabbed.”

He squeezes Seth’s shoulder one more time before moving back to the weight bench where his bag is resting, zipping it and heaving it onto his shoulder. “I’m gonna hit the shower,” he says, tipping Seth a nod. “See you tonight?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Seth mutters. He still doesn’t have a match, but he might show up anyway to see what kind of trouble he can get himself into. If all else fails, he can just find Cesaro and punch him a little.

Roman lifts his hand in a wave and Seth sighs once he disappears into the hallway leading to the showers. He doesn’t want to admit it, but Roman’s got a point. His history with Ambrose isn’t exactly stellar.

He thinks, though, that as long as he expects Ambrose to backstab him – as long as he recognizes that the second William Regal gives Ambrose a rematch, their whatever-it-is is over, he thinks he can handle it. For all that he pretends not to, even Ambrose has some semblance of honor.

“So,” says Ambrose. It’s startlingly loud, and echoes in the now near-empty room. “Didn’t know you two were pals.” 

He sounds weird, and Seth frowns, looking up. Ambrose is hanging from the rogue rings, but he’s letting his toes skim the ground, not really trying to lift himself. “We talk sometimes. He’s an interesting guy.”

“Right, right.” Ambrose toes himself back and forth along the floor in tiny increments. There’s still that hint of oddness in his voice, and Seth can’t quite pinpoint what it is. “You never mentioned.”

Seth leans against the pole next to Ambrose, eying him. He looks nonchalant. Too nonchalant, actually, and the realization coalesces in Seth’s brain.

“Are you – are you jealous?” he asks, vaguely bewildered.

Ambrose’s fingers slip off the rings, and he wipes his hands on his shorts, scoffing at Seth. “Don’t flatter yourself, princess.”

He’s not fooling Seth for a second. “You’re jealous,” he says, more certain now. “Holy shit, Ambrose, you’re jealous of Roman.”

“Oh, so he gets to be Roman but you still call me by my last name like I’m the villain in a Dickens novel?” Ambrose asks, batting the rings out of his way and storming over to his bag. He digs in it, but Seth doubts he actually needs anything from it.

He feels kind of like a fish out of water. “I didn’t know it… bothered you?” he guesses. “You never mentioned.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” Ambrose mutters, very clearly bothered. “Whatever, man, I don’t care.”

“I think you care,” Seth offers. “I, uh, I can call you not – I can call you by your first name if you really want me to.”

“I said I don’t care,” Ambrose says more forcefully. He zips his bag up without getting anything out of it. “So that means I don’t care.”

“Dean.” It’s mostly a test, to see how the name sounds in his mouth. He doesn’t know. It’s weird, in a way, because he’s so used to the other name, to the name that he can spit with anger, violence, the one he’s used to. _Dean_ is something else. It’s too big and too small and it doesn’t hurt enough to be attached to the guy standing there.

Ambrose frowns at him, his hands on his hips. “What?” he grumbles. “Look, I don’t care. You can do what you want.”

“You don’t look like a Dean,” Seth says. It’s a non sequitur but it’s all he can think to say.

“Well, I’m so sorry,” Ambrose replies. “I’m sorry my _name_ doesn’t fit me. It’s the only one I’ve got.”

Seth shakes his head. “Whatever,” he mumbles, turning to the rogue rings that Ambrose has abandoned. He might as well get _something_ in while he’s here. The lick of anger in his stomach will be useful later, though, if Ambrose will still agree to spar with him.

The rest of his miniature workout is silent. Seth works on one side of the room while Ambrose works on the other, until Seth can’t think of anything else to do. He sighs.

“Hey,” he calls over to Ambrose at the treadmill, lazily jogging. “Wrestle?”

“God, yes, please,” Ambrose immediately replies, twisting the knob and hopping off of the belt. “Thought you’d never ask.”

They set up mats, in the flat empty space at the back meant for this kind of thing. It’s not ideal, with no ropes for Seth to climb or jump over, but it’s better than nothing.

Even the first lockup feels amazing, a string of smooth transitions and takedowns until they’re standing across from each other again. It’s exhilarating. Seth had forgotten how fun it is to wrestle Ambrose when he’s not cheating everywhere.

“That all you got, prettyboy?” Ambrose asks. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes bright. He’s bouncing on the pads of his feet.

Seth doesn’t bother responding. Shit-talking is Ambrose’s thing, it’s his game, and Seth prefers to let his actions say the words for him anyway. He feints to the left and then sweeps Ambrose’s legs from underneath him, twisting him into a rear chinlock. He tightens his grip when Ambrose tries to squirm out.

“I could totally get out of this if I wanted to,” Ambrose says, shifting from side to side.

“Uh-huh,” Seth replies. “Give me your best shot.”

Ambrose suddenly drops the entire solid weight of his shoulders down and twists his legs up when Seth’s head is forced forward, trapping him in a headscissors.

“Nice,” Seth says, impressed, muffled where his mouth is pressed against Ambrose’s thigh.

“Told you,” Ambrose responds. When Seth rocks backward, he rolls with it, his thighs loosening their grip as Seth kips up onto his feet. There’s not enough room for his usual routine, but he does manage one flip, which is better than none.

Seth’s not as used to mat-wrestling as Ambrose is, that much is clear. He’s not bad – holding his own – but Ambrose is just more comfortable in a place with no ropes.

“You do anything collegiate?” Seth asks, curious, as he gets Ambrose into a headlock.

Ambrose huffs in something that’s either a laugh or a groan or both. “Gotta go to college for that.”

“Oh.” That makes a lot of sense. From what Seth knows of Ambrose’s life, college was never in the cards for him.

“Got taught by old-timers,” Ambrose says. “It’s the technical stuff, right? Just how I learned, man.”

He tries to twist backwards again, do the same trick where he drops his shoulders, but Seth’s ready for it this time, letting Ambrose’s momentum carry him back and then adjusting his grip, grapevining his legs around Ambrose’s waist.

Ambrose makes a noise. “Chicken wing,” he chokes. “Takin’ pages out of my book.”

“You’ve got some decent moves,” Seth replies. “Tap?”

“Never.” Ambrose grunts, shifting around to try and find a weak spot. Seth tightens the grip he has on Ambrose’s waist with his legs. “You’ll have to pry a tap outta my cold, dead hands.”

Seth grumbles when Ambrose finally manages to roll backward enough that Seth’s shoulders are down. There’s no official to count a pin, but Ambrose counts aloud, “One, two-“ before Seth manages to roll his shoulder up.

“Good one,” Seth admits, releasing Ambrose completely to catch his breath. Ambrose is doing the same, rubbing his throat.

They lock up again once they’re both on their feet, jockeying for position until Ambrose snapmares him and Seth lands hard, stunned for a second. That’s all it takes, one second of distraction for Ambrose to lock on his own crossface chicken wing, cinching it in hard enough that spots dance in front of Seth’s eyes.

“Fuck,” he mutters. Ambrose wrenches his arm back farther, and Seth’s a second, maybe two seconds from tapping out, giving up because this match doesn’t mean anything anyway, when Ambrose just lets go on his own for no reason.

Seth coughs, hand reaching up to massage his throat. “What’d you let go for?” he asks, confused. “You would’ve had it there, as much as I hate to admit it.”

Ambrose shrugs and crawls on hands-and-knees to sit with his legs on either side of Seth’s. “Got tired of not kissing you,” he says, casual. “I think it’s bullshit.”

Seth doesn’t say a thousand things. He thinks them, but he doesn’t say them, because a lot of them don’t really have words.

All he can think of to say in return is, “Yeah, it’s bullshit.”

Then Ambrose is kissing him anyway, so it doesn’t matter what he does or doesn’t say.

It feels like it’s been years even though it’s only been two weeks, and if Seth’s not mistaken, he can feel the same kind of hunger in the way Ambrose is kissing him that he feels in his stomach, aching and desperate.

Desperate enough that he slides his hands up Ambrose’s thighs and around his back to pull him in closer, and desperate enough that he’s pretty sure one of Ambrose’s sharp little vampire teeth nicked the inside of his mouth and that’s still not enough to make him want to stop kissing him.

“C’mere,” Ambrose mutters into his mouth, even though there’s no way for Seth to get closer than he is without just climbing inside of Ambrose. “C’mere,” he insists again.

Seth does his best, getting his hands behind Ambrose’s neck to keep him there and kiss him harder, as hard as he can. He might bite Ambrose’s lip just to hear the noise he always makes, a cross between a moan and a whimper.

He hasn’t quite _forgotten_ where they are or that they’re not the only people with access to this place, not the only people _here_. It’s still a little bit of a shock when, from behind him, Seth hears, “Oh. Oh? Uh.”

Shit, Roman. In the showers. Definitely not in the showers anymore.

Seth jerks his head around but Ambrose doesn’t seem surprised at all. Probably saw him coming and just didn’t mention, because he’s an asshole.

He actually looks smug, around the corners of his mouth. Of course he does. Jealous prick who can’t admit he’s jealous when he’s totally jealous.

“Oh, uh, hey,” Seth says, swiping his wrist across his mouth. His lips feel tingly and wet, like what they’d been doing would’ve been spelled on them even if Roman hadn’t just seen them in the middle of it. He tries to subtly shove Ambrose off of his lap, but Ambrose remains, stubborn like a possessive fucking cat who has his claws in his favorite toy.

Roman holds his hands up, taking a step back, his eyes flicking from Seth to Ambrose. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He doesn’t seem capable of any other words at the moment.

“You need something?” Ambrose asks, settling his hands on Seth’s shoulders. “We were kind of busy, here.” He doesn’t budge, even when Seth pushes him.

“No, no,” Roman says, quickly, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I, uh, I just wanted to say bye to Seth.” He sounds more confused with every word. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t,” Seth replies. He gives up trying to get Ambrose off of him and settles for twisting his head at an unnatural angle to look at Roman. “Really. You didn’t. Uh, sorry.”

“Nah, I’m, uh, apologies. Didn’t know you were in the middle of something.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. It might just be the angle, but it looks kind of like he’s blushing. It’s definitely the most flustered Seth’s ever seen him, at least. “I’ll just, I’ll go. Was good seeing you, Seth.” His mouth opens and then closes again when his eyes move to Ambrose. “See you… later, Ambrose,” he concludes, his lips twisting like they’re rebelling against the words coming out of them.

“Yeah, you can hit the bricks now, Toots,” says Ambrose, his voice full of scorn. Seth’s seized with a sudden manic laughter that he has to bite his lip to suppress. _Toots_. Ambrose is his jealous 1950s greaser boyfriend. _Hit the bricks, Toots_. Seth is losing his fucking mind.

Roman glares, but it’s half-hearted, as though he knows he should be offended but can’t actually be offended by someone calling him fucking _Toots_ like they’re all going to suddenly be wearing tight black t-shirts and finger-snapping along to _well-a well-a well-a tell me more tell me more_.

“Right,” Roman says, slow and quiet, drawing the word out. He makes one innocuous word sound like a threat, his voice curling around it like a hand curls into a fist. Ambrose’s expression doesn’t change, but his thumbs dig in to Seth’s collarbones. “See you tonight if you end up dropping by.” His tone’s a little cooler, but he still lifts his hand to Seth in a wave before he leaves.

The second he’s out the door, Seth punches Ambrose’s arm. Hard.

“Fucking ow,” Ambrose hisses, letting go of Seth’s shoulder to rub his own. “What the fuck?”

“What the fuck yourself,” Seth replies, scowling at him. “What the _fuck_?”

“What?” Ambrose asks, folding his arms across his chest. “Just some friendly conversation, right? Among friends.”

“You practically pissed on my leg.” Seth seriously contemplates the merits of hitting him again. “ _Hit the bricks_?”

“I gotta mark my territory somehow, right?” Ambrose says. Calm as anything. Still with that smug look at the edges of his face.

“Your territory,” repeats Seth.

Ambrose is chewing gum, which Seth didn’t notice until just now. He flicks his eyes up and down Seth’s torso, then blows a bubble. It pops obnoxiously. “Yup,” he says. “My territory.”

“Do you wanna tattoo your name on my ass, too, or?” Seth asks, narrowing his eyes. There’s a muscle ticking in his jaw. He can feel it.

Ambrose has the audacity to smirk at him (of course he does – if there’s anything Ambrose isn’t lacking in, it’s audacity). “Pretty sure I’ve already marked that territory pretty well.”

Seth rolls his eyes, attempting once more to squirm out from under Ambrose. It doesn’t work. Ambrose has decided that Seth’s lap is his new home and is refusing to relinquish it. “You mind?” he asks pointedly.

“Nah,” Ambrose replies. Seth is unsurprised.

“Y’know, I think it’s really cute, this jealousy thing,” he says. Ambrose’s expression flattens, his mouth turning down. Seth smiles at him. 

“I don’t have a jealousy thing,” Ambrose says. He’s sulking. It’s… adorable. Seth wants to punch himself really, really hard. “Fuck off with that, already.”

“I can’t fuck off with anything,” Seth replies. “You’re sitting on my legs.”

“It’s always complaining with you, isn’t it?” Ambrose asks, and then he kisses Seth again. Seth is weak and Ambrose is a thorough kisser and Seth likes being kissed by him. He can admit it, because it’s obvious, and Seth doesn’t like lying to himself.

He’s not sure how long they’re kissing, but by the time Ambrose leans back, satisfied with himself, Seth’s lips feel rubbed raw. He touches them to make sure he’s not bleeding.

“We about done here?” Ambrose asks. He looks vaguely drunk, swaying a little and blinking slowly.

Seth clears his throat before he answers. His voice still sounds lower than normal. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

The ride back to the hotel is silent, but about halfway through, Ambrose’s hand settles over Seth’s wrist where he’s got his hand on the gear shift. He doesn’t move it the rest of the way back. Seth tries not to read too much into it but he thinks he fails.

“That was good,” Ambrose says, once Seth is parked. It’s out of nowhere. “Our little—“ he waves his hand in a swirling random pattern, “—match thing, I mean.”

“It was all right, yeah.” Seth taps his fingers on the steering wheel. For some reason, he’s reluctant to get out of the car. “We’ve had better.”

“Well, shit, I didn’t say it was match-of-the-year, did I, Mr. Hard-to-Please?” Ambrose snorts. “I said it was good. It _was_ good.”

He’s still holding Seth’s – wrist. Holding his wrist, which isn’t his hand, and is nothing like his hand.

“I am not hard to please,” is the only thing Seth can think to say in response.

Ambrose grins at him. “Well, I knew that.”

“Get out of my car,” Seth groans, finally pushing his own door open. Ambrose gets his bag from the footwell before he does the same.

“You used to be such a nice guy,” Ambrose bemoans, though he looks more pleased at the prospect than anything. “What happened? Bet you’re not even gonna walk me home after our…” He visibly pauses, then concludes, “… outing.”

Was he going to say ‘date’? He was going to say ‘date’. Was that a date? Seth hadn’t thought it was – but he asked Ambrose to come with him – and gave him a ride, and they did kiss at the end of it – fuck, fuck, Ambrose was totally going to say ‘date’. Seth accidentally asked Ambrose on a date, didn’t he? Fuck.

“Uh,” he says intelligently. Luckily for him, Ambrose doesn’t await his response, instead just beginning to walk toward his door, clearly expecting Seth to follow him.

He does follow him. Ambrose’s door is at most twenty feet from his own, anyway. It’s no skin off his back. Doesn’t make anything a date that wasn’t meant to be a date. Just politeness and the vague outlines of a really weird friendship.

Ambrose unlocks his door, but instead of going into his room, he looks back over his shoulder. “I think maybe my first invitation wasn’t clear enough,” he says, apropos of nothing. “So I’m hoping this one’s more obvious.”

He pushes his door open the rest of the way and steps back through the doorway, keeping his eyes on Seth and waiting.

“Well?” he asks when Seth stands there and blinks at him. “In or out?”

There’s something about Dean Ambrose that Seth _likes_. And he doesn’t think about it very often because it’s confusing and weird and he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t like the things about Ambrose that he does. He likes that Ambrose is focused and ambitious and he has _drive_ , and he likes that Ambrose doesn’t care about what other people think, or if he does, it’s good at hiding it. He likes that Ambrose can say a thousand different things that all mean the same thing or he can say one thing that means a thousand.

He likes that Ambrose likes him. It’s unexpected, and it sometimes verges on frightening, but Seth likes it.

“In,” he says, stepping over the threshold like he’s crossing an invisible line. He closes the door behind him, and looks back at Ambrose, raising his eyebrows. _Your move_.

Ambrose smiles and drops his bag on the table in the corner. “Good decision,” he applauds. “I’m fucking dying for a shower.”

He jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom, or at least, where the bathroom is in Seth’s room, and raises his eyebrows right back at Seth. “You comin’?”

It’s a day for blatant invitations. Seth smells like dried sweat and his hair’s disgusting, so he could use a shower, but he’s pretty sure Ambrose doesn’t have getting clean in mind.

“Yeah,” he says anyway. “Yeah, okay.”

Ambrose smiles at him, something more natural and open than his usual wide grins, and it takes Seth’s breath away for a second. He hopes that Ambrose doesn’t notice, already turning to slip into the bathroom.

What’s wrong with him today? He’s usually so much better at… at _Ambrose_ than he’s been today. What’s changed? Since when does he notice anything about the guy’s _smile_? They’re almost-friends-but-not-really, and they fuck, and it’s good, and nobody notices anything about anyone’s mouth other than how good that mouth is at having a dick in it.

He follows Ambrose into the bathroom and, after an internal debate, closes the door behind him. There’s no point, since they’re the only two here, but he can’t bring himself to leave it open. 

Ambrose has already stripped down, and he’s leaning over into the shower to turn the water on, and adjust the temperature. He’s grumbling as he fiddles with the knob for the hot water, a long line of pale skin and muscles shifting and the slope of his back.

“Fucking thing,” he mutters. “Always gets stuck.”

Seth eyes the shower. Will they both fit in it? Hotel showers aren’t exactly gigantic, and even though Seth knows he’s not the biggest guy in the world, he’s certainly not the smallest. Ambrose doesn’t seem concerned, though, stepping back once he’s tested the temperature of the water on his wrist.

It’s a tiny room, and Ambrose nearly steps on Seth’s foot when he moves. Seth automatically settles a hand at the small of Ambrose’s lower back to steady him, and the suddenness of skin-on-skin contact startles him into snatching his hand away again.

Ambrose’s limbs are loose, entirely unselfconscious as he looks back at Seth, looking him critically up and down. “Off,” he says. It’s more of an instruction than a suggestion. Seth keeps eye contact as he pulls his shirt up and over his head.

He never feels quite as unsexy as he feels when he’s just finished working out, but that’s not stopping him from being vaguely turned on as he stands there, getting ready to shower with somebody who knows his body very intimately in ways that nobody else does. He’s done things with Ambrose that he’s never done with anybody other than Ambrose. He’s kind of just realized that.

His shorts come off as well, and his shoes, and Ambrose hums under his breath, pleased. It makes something fizzle warm and light in Seth’s stomach. He’s not sure if he likes it or not.

“If the water goes freezing somewhere in the middle, try not to let it kill the mood,” Ambrose says, sliding back the glass door and stepping inside. This whole day has felt like a series of challenges and counter-challenges, a back-and-forth both similar and in no way similar to the way they wrestle. Ambrose is leaving doors open for Seth to step through all over the place. It’s not a metaphor. It’s not a metaphor. It’s not.

He steps underneath the spray of water, automatically wincing backward until he gets used to the pressure, and slides the door closed behind him. Now they’re both here, in this tiny hotel shower, and Ambrose is looking at him through the water like he half-wasn’t expecting Seth to take him up on the offer at all.

Ambrose doesn’t say that, though, if that’s how he feels. He just says, “Soap’s behind you,” a little louder than his normal speaking voice to be heard over the water.

Oh, good, he’ll be able to get actually clean during this shower. He feels disgusting all over, and gratefully seizes the generic hotel bar soap sitting on a rack underneath the shower nozzle.

He can practically feel the layer of gym grime coming off as he scrubs, and even though he never quite forgets that Ambrose is there – couldn’t, when Ambrose’s elbow keeps knocking into his, or Ambrose’s bare hip will brush his back, or Ambrose will silently nudge him out of the way to get more of the spray – it’s more of a shower than he would’ve expected to get with another person there with him.

Seth sighs happily, leaning his head back to get his hair wet. He’s not expecting Ambrose to say, out of nowhere, “Turn around.”

“What?” he asks, tipping his head back down. Ambrose looks both hesitant and determined, and Seth’s not sure if that’s a good combination. “Why?”

“Just do it,” Ambrose insists, a hint of familiar stubbornness there now, and Seth gives him a surly look for it, but he does turn around, unsure of what to expect.

He’s definitely not expecting hands in his hair, steady and sure, or the scent of generic hotel shampoo that wafts past his face.

“What?” he asks again, but it comes out in a croaky mumble. Ambrose’s hands feel _really good_ when he’s working shampoo into a lather, apparently. It’s like getting a scalp massage.

“What?” Ambrose asks back. Seth can’t tell anything from his voice. He’s actually, embarrassingly, a little wavery on his feet. Ambrose is really good at this.

“Nothing,” Seth finally decides. He thinks he says that, anyway. His body’s kind of slowly sagging backwards until his back meets Ambrose’s chest, and Ambrose, he’s pretty sure, is shaking a little with laughter.

“Really? That’s what does it for you?” he asks, rubbing small circles at the base of Seth’s neck. 

Seth gurgles at him. Ambrose laughs more.

“Turn around,” Ambrose says, and Seth, rather than embarrassing himself more by trying to say anything else, turns around. “Head back.”

Seth obediently tips his head back, and Ambrose employs the same motion to rinse the shampoo from his hair, his brow furrowed as though he’s concentrating.

“There,” he concludes once he’s satisfied that all the soap is out. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

He uses his grip in Seth’s wet hair to pull his head back forward and plant a kiss to his temple. It’s simple and easy and terrifying.

“Now that we’re clean,” Ambrose murmurs, easily pinning Seth’s boneless body to the slick wall of the shower, his mouth pressing to the wing of Seth’s collarbone. He bites him, one quick, sharp little nip, a sting that he then soothes with his tongue.

This is more what Seth was expecting. He can do this just fine. He knows this version of Ambrose.

Seth tilts his head back against the wall, and Ambrose’s mouth, hot and seeking, explores that stretch of skin, one of his hands at Seth’s waist while the other is holding his upper arm against the wall even though it’s entirely unnecessary.

Ambrose’s thigh is pushed between Seth’s. He’s already half-hard and he can’t tell if it happened when Ambrose started washing his hair or if it’s been that way even longer. 

It’s different, now. Charged where it wasn’t, or at least not as much. Ambrose’s thigh rocks against Seth lightly, and Seth can’t help pushing back against the pressure.

“Mm,” Ambrose hums in his ear, his mouth so close that he doesn’t even have to raise his voice to be heard over the water. He presses his nose behind Seth’s ear for just a moment before he says, “I like making you hard.”

“I could tell,” Seth replies, his breath hitching as Ambrose presses his thigh up against him again.

“I _like_ it,” Ambrose insists. He catches Seth’s earlobe between his teeth and tugs a little. “Like, I really like it. I wanna do it all the time, you know?”

Seth coughs instead of answering because the hand at his waist has moved, wet and warm as it wraps around Seth’s cock. 

“Know what I bet?” Ambrose asks. Seth’s betting he doesn’t want to know what Ambrose bets. That doesn’t seem to matter. “I bet your dick’s never been harder than it was when I was eating you out.”

Just the words, coming out of Ambrose’s mouth make Seth push into his hand. He keeps his mouth shut, but he doesn’t need to say anything for Ambrose to just _know_.

“Yeah?” He sounds reinvigorated, sharp teeth against Seth’s neck. “Liked that, didn’t you? I could tell, y’know, you kept making these sounds and like, all these noises, it was fucking gorgeous, watching you try so hard but you just couldn’t keep ‘em in, could you? Liked it too much.” 

Seth wishes he could turn his ears off because Ambrose’s words are going straight to his dick, like Ambrose’s voice is hardwired to Seth’s brain’s arousal center. Ambrose is right there, though, so close, his mouth practically pressed right to Seth’s ear.

“So hot to watch,” Ambrose mumbles. “I’d do it again, you know, I’d do it if you wanted me to, bet you’d like that. Wonder if I could get you to make those sounds again, so _desperate_ , Seth, you sounded like you _needed_ my fucking mouth, didn’t you?”

“Shut up,” Seth says on a gasp. It’s too much, and Ambrose has to know it, from the way he’s pressed up against Seth from nose to knees, all wet skin and sex. “Shut up.”

“You wanna know what my dick would feel like?” Ambrose is stroking him now, in long, smooth movements of his hand. “You liked my tongue, and you liked my fingers, I could tell you wanted but you didn’t know how to ask, and I wanted to give it to you so bad, babe, but you gotta ask me first, you gotta be able to say it before I can give it to you.”

It shouldn’t be sexy, the half-ramble half-mumble of Ambrose’s voice as he talks filth into Seth’s ear, but it is. There’s water all around them, still pounding down, and it’s making everything slippery, but especially Ambrose, his shoulder where Seth tries to grip and the sleek line of his thigh where it’s still pressed between Seth’s.

“C’mere,” says Ambrose. He always says that when Seth is already too close, when Seth can’t get closer, and still Ambrose wants to feel more of him. “Here,” Ambrose insists, his tongue drawing a stripe up Seth’s neck. 

“I am here,” Seth says, one hand fisting in the back of Ambrose’s wet hair to drag him into a kiss. He can’t talk when he’s kissing, can he?

It’s Ambrose, so of course he can.

“I want you to think about me,” Ambrose murmurs, “I want you to think about my mouth on you all the time, when you don’t wanna be thinking about it but you just can’t help it because it’s _that good_ , I want you to remember how it felt to let me fuck you with my fucking tongue and I want you to remember that you begged me for more with everything you’ve got.”

“Shut up.” It’s weaker now, Seth’s mouth not cooperating with him, the slow pull of Ambrose’s hand sucking all the words from his brain. He doesn’t know how many times in the past couple weeks he’s found himself thinking about that, about what Ambrose did and about how Seth reacted, and he’s snapped back into his head every time he realizes.

“You’re so fucking responsive it’s unreal,” says Ambrose, and he’s breathing heavily, too, his forehead pressing to Seth’s shoulder, his own cock smashed into Seth’s hip, and he’s just as hard as Seth is. “Your body’s in love with my body.”

Seth’s blood runs white-hot, and his eyes are closed, and his head knocks back against the wall so hard that he sees stars, and Ambrose is biting his shoulder so hard it hurts but that doesn’t matter when Seth’s coming in juddering spurts. 

“Like that, yeah,” Ambrose murmurs. It’s the first thing Seth hears. “That’s what I mean, just like that, look at you.”

Seth’s hand is grasping Ambrose’s arm so tightly that it must be painful but Ambrose doesn’t move it. He mouths a kiss to Seth’s shoulder where the bite mark is throbbing, and it doesn’t quite feel like an apology. 

“You ever get tired of bein’ the best looking thing in every room you’re in?” Ambrose asks him. It sounds rhetorical and even if it wasn’t, Seth wouldn’t answer.

Ambrose is still pressed against him, so close that Seth can feel how he’s not hard anymore, and he guesses, “Did you… rub off on my hip?”

“Seemed more polite than just shoving your head down onto it,” Ambrose says loftily, petting his hand down Seth’s flank. “Which was my first instinct.”

“Thanks for the consideration,” Seth says. He still feels a bit winded, and now he’s kind of dirty again. Damn Ambrose. And damn him even more, because Seth doesn’t actually mind too much.

“I try.” Ambrose tugs Seth into a kiss, easy as anything, before he opens the sliding door and pops out of the shower. He’s humming to himself, happy as a clam, leaving Seth to quickly slip back under the full spray of the water to rinse his thigh off where Ambrose came on him like a dog pissing to mark their territory.

He’s reminded of the way Ambrose had said that earlier, so matter-of-fact, that he was marking his territory, that he considers Seth his _territory_. Seth still can’t figure out how pissed off about that he should be. He still hasn’t figured out why it turns him on a little.

He turns off the water and wrings out his hair a little before he steps out.

“Towel,” Ambrose says, right before he tosses a towel at Seth’s face. 

Seth dries himself off, silent and thoughtful. This was _good_. He liked it. He doesn’t like admitting to it, and he isn’t going to say it out loud, but he liked it. Ambrose is kind of okay to be around when he’s not unbearable. 

“Not sure I like the look on your face,” comments Ambrose, rubbing his hair dry with a hand towel. “You look like you’re thinking again.”

“I know how you hate that,” Seth replies, grateful he keeps something to tie his hair back with around his wrist. “But it’s not bad thinking, this time. I don’t think, anyway.”

“Yeah?” Ambrose can’t possibly know what he _was_ thinking, but he looks more intently at Seth anyway, his interest peaked. “That’s something, I guess.”

“It’s something, all right,” Seth mutters, watching Ambrose toss his damp towel into the corner of the room. Seth follows his example.

“You got clothes in your bag?” Ambrose asks, scratching his stomach. He swings around into the main room and seems unconcerned with getting dressed himself, flopping down onto his bed. Seth wonders if maybe that’s a hint that he’d like Seth to leave, if he’d rather Seth be dressed now.

But he’d called it an invitation, and Seth is still loose and quietly content from his orgasm, and he doesn’t feel like going back to his room yet.

“Yeah.” Seth doesn’t move toward his bag, though, instead taking the two steps to the bed and sitting on the edge of it.

He guesses that was the right thing to do when Ambrose, though he has an arm thrown over his eyes, starts smiling. Just a little.

“Okay,” Ambrose says. He shuffles over to give Seth enough room to get on the bed properly, pushing himself up onto his elbows and lacing his fingers over his stomach. “You still planning on maybe heading to the arena tonight?”

“I might,” Seth says, leaning against one of the corner poles at the end of the bed. Ambrose immediately nudges him with his foot. Childish. Kind of cute. “I got time, though. Still doesn’t start for a few hours.”

Ambrose is watching him carefully. “You gonna stick around, then?”

“You kicking me out?” Seth counters. He nudges Ambrose’s hip with his own foot. So there.

He gets another smile for that, one of the normal, human ones. “Nah,” Ambrose says. “Starting to get used to you, y’know. You’re okay.”

“I guess you’re tolerable, too.” Seth smacks Ambrose’s foot when it moves to prod him again. “Sometimes,” he amends.

He’s aware, in the back of his mind, that this probably qualifies as flirting. He’s not a stranger to flirting but he’s not sure when his brain decided that Dean Ambrose would be a good person to flirt with. When did he make the transition? Mentally, when did he move from blatant distrust to grudging if occasionally violent affection?

At least twice since he got here, he’s had to keep himself from touching Ambrose; once, when he’d wanted to see how his knuckles fit in the indentation of Ambrose’s spine, and once when he’d caught sight of the scar on the back of Ambrose’s arm, and wanted to see how it felt against his fingertips.

He’s touching him right now. His foot is pressing casually against Ambrose’s side, and Ambrose doesn’t appear to mind all that much. Actually, Ambrose’s hand has settled on the arch of Seth’s foot. Not moving, just resting there. It’s kind of nice.

This is what got him in trouble last time, though. Thinking it was something more than it was. Ambrose tells him that all the time, that he’s thinking about it too hard. Well, Seth won’t think about it so hard. He won’t fall into that trap again.

“You have a scar.” It’s seemingly out of nowhere, Ambrose’s thumb pushing against the pad of Seth’s foot. “Where’d you get it?”

“What?” Seth asks, and Ambrose taps his thumb against the bottom of his foot again. “Oh. Uh, it’s old. Not from wrestling, or anything.”

“Didn’t ask if it was from wrestling,” says Ambrose, which is fair. “Where’d you get it?”

Seth watches Ambrose’s fingers, long and fidgety, as they tap out a rhythm on his foot. “Dropped a glass when I was like thirteen, panicked, stepped backward and got a chunk lodged in my foot.”

“Ouch,” Ambrose says mildly. He traces a line down Seth’s arch with his thumb, in a crooked J-pattern. It only takes Seth a second to realize he’s following the line of the scar. “Sounds painful.”

“I’m sure you’ve had worse,” Seth replies. “Probably gotten glass shards in you more than once.”

“Never stops being painful,” reasons Ambrose. “I’m not, like, immune to pain. I just get off on it a little more than most, I guess. Got to, to be in the business we’re in, don’t you think?”

Seth didn’t need to know that. Ambrose is looking at him with one of his little smiles on his face, like he knows exactly what Seth is thinking.

“Maybe,” Seth murmurs. “I think there’s a difference between the pain of a good match and the pain of, I don’t know, getting barbed wire wrapped around your neck.”

“Unless you’re getting barbed wire wrapped around your neck in the good match.” Ambrose’s hand has left his foot, instead wrapping loosely around his ankle. “But, like, of course it’s different. It’s the difference between eating a cookie and eating a whole fucking cake. They’re both good, but one’s a hell of a lot worse for you.”

“You miss doing matches like that?” Seth asks curiously. “I doubt the WWE is going to bring death matches into their programming anytime soon.”

Ambrose laughs, and shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “I mean, we all go through phases, right? That was then. I’m not…” He pauses, thoughtful, then shakes his head again. “I’m not that guy anymore. I don’t go backwards, I don’t live in the past.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” Seth says under his breath. He prods Ambrose’s thigh with his foot. “Your turn.”

“My turn for what?” Ambrose asks, frowning at him.

“I showed you mine.” Seth wriggles his toes. “Now you show me one of yours.”

“You’ve probably seen all of mine,” Ambrose says, wry, but he sits up anyway. It’s weird, Seth almost forgot they were both naked until Ambrose shifts around so that his back’s to Seth. “I think there’s only one that’s usually covered by my trunks.”

He leans forward and Seth’s eyes are drawn to a faint scar very low on his back, a thin, jagged line that works its way from his tailbone to his hip, nearly curving around his side. It’s long but doesn’t look very deep, and Seth can’t help but reach out to touch it.

“More barbed wire?” he guesses. He knows that’s how Ambrose got the giant scar running down his back; everybody does. This one’s more delicate than that, less gnarled and twisted.

“Something like that.” Seth can feel the way Ambrose tries to suppress a shiver when Seth’s fingertip runs across the length of it. “I, uh. Got into a fight into a bar. Nothing exciting. Someone got a little too excited with a beer bottle.”

“Mine wasn’t exactly exciting, either,” Seth reasons. 

“I guess,” mutters Ambrose, turning back around. He meets Seth’s eyes. “Your turn.”

Seth smiles, but ducks his head to make it less obvious. They’re like little kids, or war veterans, showing off their battle scars. “Okay.”

He shuffles around as Ambrose had, wondering at how much he _doesn’t_ feel unsafe turning his back to the man, and pulls his hair out of the way.

Ambrose hisses, and even though Seth can’t see him, he can sense the way Ambrose moves closer.

“That’s from your neck surgery?” he asks. Seth doesn’t question how Ambrose would know about that. Just because it happened before he came to the company doesn’t mean Ambrose wouldn’t have read up about it.

“Bulging disc,” Seth confirms. “2009. I’m just glad it wasn’t something worse.”

Ambrose’s touch is still a little bit of a shock, and Seth breathes in sharply enough that Ambrose snatches his hand back until Seth’s shoulders relax. “Does it still cause you any problems?”

“Not at all.” It’s a silent acknowledgement that even if it did, Seth wouldn’t tell him. That’s a level of trust they haven’t made it to, yet. Seth has no idea if they ever will, but you don’t tell an opponent your weaknesses, and as far as Seth knows, Ambrose could still be his opponent. “Wouldn’t have left as bad a scar if I’d listened to the doctor and rested for more than a few weeks, but I guess you probably know what that’s like.”

There’s a pause, where Ambrose’s fingers run over the rough patch of skin on the back of Seth’s neck. He moves closer, then, a span of warm, bare skin pressed to Seth’s back as Ambrose’s chin hooks over the crook of his shoulder. His arm bands around Seth’s waist.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, his voice close to Seth’s ear. “Yeah, I know what that’s like.”

They don’t move for what feels like a long time but probably isn’t. Ambrose is really warm, and he hasn’t shaved today, Seth doesn’t think, because stubble scritches against his shoulder every time he breathes. Seth only realizes he’s closed his eyes when Ambrose sighs and kisses his shoulder, and Seth opens them. 

Seth turns his head and Ambrose meets him with a kiss, the kind of normal, easy kiss that Seth wouldn’t imagine them capable of. Ambrose’s lips are a little chapped and Seth’s neck is twisted at an odd angle and in that split second of time, Seth finds himself thinking, _I could get used to this_.

And then Ambrose pulls away, clearing his throat, his ears faintly pink. He moves back to his previous position on the bed, stretched out, back against the headboard. He has so very much skin, when he’s not wearing any clothes.

“If you wanted to get to the show, you’d probably want to leave soon, huh?” Ambrose asks. His voice is gruff. “If you still wanted to do that.”

Somehow, Seth knows it’s not a brush-off. He might be full of shit, and Ambrose really does just want to get rid of him, but it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like Ambrose needs some distance for a little while and if he’s got the same feeling as Seth, squirmy and tightly-wound and fluttering inside, Seth understands. He gets it.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, you’re right, I should get going, probably.”

“Not like I won’t see you around, right?” Ambrose asks, lifting a hand to shove through his hair. It’s just damp enough still to go frazzled at the ends, and it’s kind of endearing when Seth really doesn’t want it to be. “We’re practically neighbors.”

Seth laughs as he swings his legs off the bed. “Never really thought about it that way,” he admits. “But yeah, I guess we are.”

“If I ever need to borrow a cup of sugar, I know who to ask, then.” Ambrose folds his legs up so that he’s sitting cross-legged. He doesn’t avert his eyes while Seth digs in his bag for shorts and a t-shirt, nor does he when Seth gets dressed. It makes Seth feel… weird. Good weird, he thinks. But weird. It’s weird that somebody is watching him get dressed and it’s _not_ making him uncomfortable.

Feels kind of domestic in a way Seth’s gotten used to not having. 

His stomach twists.

Seth ties his shoelaces extra-carefully, because that way he doesn’t have to look up at Ambrose. “I’ll see you around, yeah. Yeah,” he repeats. He’s not sure why. 

Ambrose is still watching him. Even if Seth’s not looking back at him, he can feel his eyes. “You ever need a gym partner,” he says suddenly, “you know where I am.”

It’s a tacit invitation, an offer to repeat today if Seth wants to. The ball’s in Seth’s court now. He’s never been good at basketball.

“I do, don’t I?” he asks, standing and finally looking at Ambrose, who even now hasn’t looked away. He doesn’t look ashamed to have been caught watching, either. Then again, Ambrose doesn’t seem ashamed of much.

When Ambrose unfolds his legs to get off the bed, Seth is struck not for the first time by how weird the way he moves is. It’s fluid but jerky, aware and careless all at once. He moves like his body knows what to do without his brain telling it to. It’s part of what makes him so difficult to wrestle, because it’s just so unpredictable. At times, it’s like even he has no idea what he’s going to do next.

There’s an odd, animal grace to it. Even when he’s just walking, taking the four steps from the bed to Seth, there’s an air around him.

He reaches past Seth to set his hand on the door handle, his other hand a weight on Seth’s side.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Ambrose says. It’s not quite a command, but it’s not quite a request, either.

Seth dips his head in a nod, then shrugs. “You know where I am, too.”

Ambrose’s return smile reminds Seth of a shark. “I do,” he confirms. “Just thought maybe you wouldn’t want to extend an open invitation to a guy like me. Cause I’ll take you up on it.”

Seth doesn’t say anything. He just raises his eyebrows and tilts his head, hefting his bag up onto his shoulder.

The noise Ambrose makes is somewhere between an appreciative huff and a laugh. “Y’know,” he says, before shaking his head. “You’re somethin’ else. I kinda like it.”

“I might’ve guessed,” says Seth, “on account of how many times you’ve sucked my dick.”

Ambrose laughs again, his shoulders hitching toward his ears, and he leans in and pecks Seth on the lips. It doesn’t even count as a kiss, he doesn’t think. That won’t do at all.

“That all you got?” he asks. 

He doesn’t give Ambrose a chance to answer, and Ambrose’s lips are still chapped, and Seth is in way, way too deep. Ambrose’s hand slides up his back, and Seth’s reminded when his own arm slips around Ambrose’s waist that Ambrose is still not wearing clothes. It’s that more than anything that makes him break the kiss.

Ambrose doesn’t move away, though, staying right where he is, his whole body pressed against Seth’s front.

“I’m really looking forward to showing you _exactly_ what I’ve got,” he says. His eyes are really startlingly blue this close. “I’m fuckin’ _lifechanging_.”

The really sad thing is that he already has, in a lot of ways, and Seth’s not ever gonna say that out loud, much less to Ambrose. But from the first time they stepped into that ring together, it was kind of magical. And Seth doesn’t think he’s going to forget that, no matter what happens with… this.

“Dare you,” he says instead of any of that, pressing his lips against Ambrose’s because they’re right there and he wants to. “Double dog dare you.”

Ambrose’s eyes light up a little. “Done,” he says. Even though Seth knows he has dimples, it’s still startling every time. “Dare accepted. Prepare to be blown the fuck away.”

“Looking forward to it.” Seth shakes his head, smiling, and reaches behind him. He hand lands on Ambrose’s on the handle of the door, and he doesn’t bother moving it, simply using Ambrose’s hand to push the handle down. “I’ll see you around, Ambrose.”

“Dean,” Ambrose sing-songs. “One of these days.”

Seth steps out into the parking lot. When he looks over his shoulder, half of Ambrose’s face is peering past the door, along with one of his arms and his bare hip.

He waves at Seth, and keeps his eyes on him the entire time he’s closing the door.

It’s really cute.

God fucking damn it.

\--

It’s a relief to find out that he has an actual match the next week. Seth’s not usually one to get self-important, like he deserves a match on the show every week, but he guesses he’s getting to be more like Ambrose than he might want. What he’d said, about how combined, they’re probably the reason half the audience watches FCW, it’s stuck in Seth’s head. 

He’s good and he knows it, but he’s tried his whole career not to let it go to his ego. He’s managed until now, and there’s no reason that should change.

Still, a match is exactly what he needs. He’s been jittery and uptight the whole week, and he refuses to believe it’s because he hasn’t seen Ambrose since the day at the gym. The two are entirely unrelated.

A jolt definitely doesn’t run down his spine when he enters the arena and Ambrose is hanging out near a table with water bottles arranged in neat lines on it. And Seth definitely doesn’t suddenly decide that he’s thirsty in order to make his way over there.

He snags a bottle of water, twisting the cap off and shifting to lean against the wall next to the table. It’s all very casual. Not a big deal at all.

“Match tonight?” he mutters, carefully, squinting into the distance instead of looking at Ambrose. They’re just two guys who happen to both be getting water at the same time.

“That’s what they tell me.” Ambrose’s water bottle makes a crumpling sound as he squeezes it. “You, too?”

“Yup.” Seth takes a drink of his own. This is ridiculous. He feels like he’s in a spy movie. He gives up the pretense, instead turning to look at Ambrose while he’s talking to him. “Who’ve you got?”

“Not Regal,” Ambrose grumbles. “Think he’s here, though. On commentary, not to wrestle. Coward.”

“He can’t run forever,” Seth indulges, of two minds about the whole thing. It’ll be a hell of a match when those two lock up again – and Seth’s sure it’ll happen, because Ambrose won’t let up until it does – so from the point of view of somebody who enjoys good wrestling matches, he’d be a fool not to look forward to it. But they’d agreed. They agreed that when Regal gives Ambrose another match, that’s it.

So maybe he’s hoping Regal hopes out a while longer. Maybe he’s not disappointed the man’s only here to do commentary. Maybe he’d like another however many weeks. If he does, there’s nobody else in his head to tell him he shouldn’t.

“Probably couldn’t run anywhere if he wanted to,” Ambrose grumps. “With his old, washed-up, old man knees.”

Seth uses his next drink of water to muffle his laugh. 

“Who’ve you got?” Ambrose asks him.

“Rick Victor.” The very nice lady who had called to tell him he had a match tonight had also been kind enough to let him know who his opponent was going to be. 

Ambrose turns to look at him, disbelief clear on his face. “Rick Victor,” he repeats. “You have Rick Victor? You’re too good for Rick Victor.”

“Well, Rick Victor’s who I’ve got,” Seth replies. “I don’t pick ‘em, I just show up and wrestle who they tell me to.”

“Rick Victor,” Ambrose mutters, shaking his head. “What is the world coming to?”

“He’s a good athlete,” Seth says, but it’s feeble. He privately feels kind of the same way, but he’s a good sport. He’ll wrestle who the higher-ups think he should be wrestling, and he’ll put on a great show, because he’s a good performer. Even if you’re in the ring with the worst piece of shit wrestler in the world, your effort should always be to have the best match of the night. That’s what Seth believes.

“Sure, he’s great,” Ambrose says dismissively. “But he’s a B player and he always will be. You’re an A player. And you always have been.”

“Well,” says Seth. He can’t think of how to finish that sentence. What is he supposed to say? He thinks so, too, obviously, because he’s good at what he does and he knows it. He’s not going to be falsely modest for no reason: if you’re not the best, in this business, you strive to be, and fake it until you are. 

“I should find out who I’m outshining tonight,” Ambrose grumbles, tossing his empty bottle into a nearby trash can. “Good luck, not that you’ll need it.”

Ambrose gives him a smile and finger guns – Seth’s going to have to ask him someday if he’s under the impression that finger guns are cool – and then he dips around the corner out of sight. 

Seth sighs. He’d thought, hoped, that maybe he was imagining how much he’s starting to like Ambrose, but he definitely wasn’t. 

It feels good to get back into his trunks. It’s methodical and easy, to don his armor, as it were: kneepads, boots, kickpads, trunks, wrist tape. It’s stuff he can do without thinking, and when he’s finally dressed to compete, he feels as comfortable as he ever has.

The first match is starting on the monitor. Seth’s is second on the card; he checked, so he can sit tight here until it’s time to go down to the ring.

He’s going through his stretches when he hears Ambrose’s voice, and it’s confusing, since he _knows_ Ambrose’s match isn’t until after his. He looks up at the monitor and it becomes clearer. Ambrose is in with Branson, and they’re talking about… William Regal, of course.

Seth’s mood sours just a little. He doesn’t like being reminded about Ambrose’s weird obsession with Regal. He’s not – it’s not – he just doesn’t like to think about it, because Ambrose is both at his best and at his worst when Regal’s involved, and maybe Seth doesn’t want to think about how the time will inevitably come again when he’ll be nothing but a distraction that Ambrose has to get rid of.

Ambrose is talking about how Regal couldn’t beat him again in a million years. That, they agree on. Seth imagines Regal knows it, too. That’s probably why he hasn’t given Ambrose a second match, in all reality. Seth doesn’t blame the man for wanting to live a little longer. This time, Ambrose is coming for blood, and Seth has no doubt he’s going to get it.

That’s what it’s all about. Ambrose taunting Regal by using the man’s finishing moves, staring at him whenever he’s on commentary. Ambrose wants to beat Regal at his own game. And he’s going to. Seth knows he’s going to, Ambrose knows he’s going to, Regal knows he’s going to.

It’s just a matter of time.

Seth just hopes that… he doesn’t know what he hopes. He hopes it’s not soon, because he could get used to this, this whatever it is with Ambrose, but he hopes it’s soon, because he could get used to this whatever it is with Ambrose.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters right now but the match he’s going into, and he needs his whole head for that.

It’s a decent match. It feels good to get in the ring, and to have ropes to bounce off or climb if he wants to, and the mat has some give to it, unlike a hard gym floor. It’s good. And Victor really is decent in the ring. He’s more of a technical wrestler, likes to keep to hard hits and stiff holds. He’s good. But Seth is great. He gets the win.

And god, it feels fucking amazing. After that long string of losses, after getting pinned and submitting and losing his title and losing the rematch and losing title shot after title shot, even if this is just a match, he still won it.

He’s riding that feeling all the way back to his locker room. Ambrose isn’t there, but the reason why becomes obvious when Seth turns on the monitor to see Ambrose heading to the ring. He’s such an unbelievable asshole, and somehow manages to get that across without saying a word. Seth can’t figure it out. Somehow, just through the way he moves, Ambrose can say anything he wants.

Now he’s analyzing the guy’s body language. He’s not even in this match. This is bullshit, what’s happening to him?

Ambrose’s match against Sakamoto isn’t bad. They’re better matches for each other than Seth and Victor had been, and it shows. There are a few times that Sakamoto nearly gets a pin, but Ambrose manages to squirm out, as usual, before he puts – of course, the Regal Stretch, on Sakamoto for the win.

Seth understands getting into the head of your opponents. He gets that, and he gets that’s what Ambrose _does_ , but it just leaves a bad taste in Seth’s mouth. A bad taste that worsens when after Sakamoto taps, Ambrose just stares at Regal from the ring, with Regal looking back at him, and fuck this. Fuck this. Seth turns off the monitor.

His part’s done. He doesn’t need to see anything else, really, doesn’t need to stay if he doesn’t want to. He could just leave, change out of his ring gear and head back to the hotel. He doesn’t have any reason to hang around.

Seth pushes himself up from his seat and sets to getting a shower, at least. He can decide after that whether he’s staying or going.

The shower doesn’t do much to clear his head. He’s cleaner, at least, which is something, and he pulls on his street clothes slowly. He’s not sure, exactly, what he’s conflicted about, until the handle of his door turns and Ambrose comes bounding in while Seth’s buttoning his jeans.

“Hey,” says Ambrose, all pep and fun. His cheeks are flushed, a sheen of sweat on his chest. “Did you see my match?”

“I managed to catch most of it,” Seth replies as he does up his fly. Ambrose’s eyes flick down to Seth’s hands and Seth’s pleased (even though it’s so, so stupid to be pleased) when they spark with interest for a moment. “Interesting choice of submission moves.”

Ambrose’s smile widens, something cruel lingering at the edges of it. There are moments, few and far between, when Seth is reminded that Ambrose can be a very dangerous man when he wants to be.

“Fuckin’ showed him, didn’t I? Mine looked better than anything he can do. He knows it, too, I know he knows it. That’s why he won’t face me. Knows I’ll make him look bad.”

“Course,” replies Seth. He crouches, digging in his bag for a shirt. “Any response on his end about when he’s gonna give you that match?”

He doesn’t care about the answer. He doesn’t care about the answer. He doesn’t care about the answer.

“Nah,” Ambrose says casually, waving a hand and plopping down in a seat. He shoves his hair back off his forehead. “Nothing yet. I’m not waiting up. If he’s too scared to face me, that’s his problem.”

“I guess it is.” Seth laughs. He’s not sure what he’s laughing at. Himself, probably, and the palpable sense of relief that’s bloomed in his chest. “I, uh, I was gonna head out. Don’t really care about anything else on the show.”

“Oh.” For the first time, Ambrose seems to take in the way Seth’s dressed in street clothes now, shouldering his bag. “Don’t care about Steamboat and Sandow?”

“Moved on from the FCW 15 title, I think. Bigger and better things, right?” Seth feels a little too big for his boots, saying it, but this is Ambrose. Ambrose hardly has room to make waves about someone else having an ego.

“Look at you,” Ambrose says. He looks impressed. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d have it in you. Gunning for the big guys now, huh?”

“Something like that. Something like that.” Seth shakes his head. “Everyone knows Sandow’s getting called up soon, anyway. Hopefully we won’t have to deal with him and his big mouth as much then.”

“We can only hope,” Ambrose replies. “Give me a minute to put on pants and then we can go.”

“We?” Seth asks before he can really think about it. Ambrose doesn’t even blink, just smiles at him and stands, strolling to the door and opening it.

“Yeah, we. You’re giving me a ride,” Ambrose explains. “Awfully nice of you, really. Might suck your dick as a thank you.”

Seth groans, and as Ambrose is ducking out the door, calls, “Most people would just offer gas money!”

“I’m not most people, babe!” is what Ambrose shouts back at him. Seth groans again, dropping back into his seat, a warmth blossoming in his stomach that he wants to smother before it can grow into a fire.

\--

The thing about Ambrose – and especially about being whatever-he-is with Ambrose (Seth hasn’t been able to come up with a word that makes sense to describe it) – that Seth learns at the next show is that he doesn’t care. He cares about things, and goals, and Seth’s sure that in some ways he even cares about people, but he just can’t muster up the ability to care what people think of him.

While some may say that’s a good quality in a wrestler, Seth happens to think it’s a really fucking terrible quality in the person you’re having casual sex with.

He’d arrived at the arena only to be whisked into a storage closet, or what looks like a storage closet. He hadn’t really had much of an opportunity to look around before he was accosted.

“I have a match,” Seth mutters, his shirt shoved haphazardly up under his armpits, his jeans undone, Ambrose’s mouth hot underneath his navel. “I really – I have a match I need to get ready for. And a locker room we could be doing this in.”

“Boring,” Ambrose mutters, his teeth sharp on Seth’s hipbone. It feels like a reprimand. “Already done this in your locker room. And my locker room. Wanna do it here now.”

“Can’t always get what you want,” Seth remarks. He doesn’t even know why he says it. Probably because it’s really hard to think when Ambrose’s hand is wrapping around his dick and pulling him out of his jeans.

“Can,” Ambrose argues in a murmur, but he’s too distracted to mount a real defense, and anyway, he doesn’t need one. Seth gets a hand in his hair and Ambrose goes down agreeable as anything. 

Seth wonders sometimes if anybody would even believe him if he told them what Ambrose is like in bed, how good he is at following direction, how much he likes it when Seth tells him what to do or how to do it. He doesn’t think anybody would know what to do with an Ambrose who wasn’t growling and biting and scratching his way through everything. 

Because for all that Ambrose is hard to figure out and for all that he tries Seth’s patience, there are times when he’s like an ornery old alley cat. Pet him the right way and he’ll curl up in your lap and never leave, sweet as anything. Seth likes that Ambrose.

Of course, sometimes he’s fond of the Ambrose that leaves bite marks on his thighs, too.

Last week, they’d barely gotten into Seth’s room before Ambrose was pushing him up against the wall and kissing him so hard Seth had thought his lip split, and now he’s hardly into the arena and Ambrose has him shoved against a door. He’s starting to think it’s just a thing for Ambrose, pushing people against things and having his way with them.

And then Seth’s not thinking anything at all, he’s just feeling Ambrose’s mouth and Ambrose’s hand gripping his hip and Ambrose’s hair between his fingers.

When Seth finishes, it’s almost seamless, the way Ambrose rises to his feet and Seth pushes his hand into his shorts to finish him off. It’s practiced. Hell, they’ve done it what feels like a thousand times, haven’t they? It’s practically routine at this point.

Ambrose hisses in his ear. “Is this really the time for you to get cold feet, princess?” he asks, and Seth realizes he’s been holding Ambrose’s cock in his still hand for far too long while his brain came to terms with the word _routine_ being used to describe him and Ambrose.

“Are we dating?” Seth blurts. He immediately wishes that there was something heavy and potentially fatal in this storage closet for him to hit himself over the head with. Holy shit, how did he subconsciously think of the worst possible thing he could say in this situation?

Ambrose doesn’t say anything. Of course Ambrose doesn’t say anything, in response to Seth suddenly morphing into a twelve-year-old girl.

“Uh,” Ambrose ventures finally, one hand still absently slipped behind Seth’s neck. “Uh.”

“Oh, god, forget I said that. Please forget I said that,” Seth groans. “Please. I have no idea why I said it.”

He belatedly moves to take his hand out of Ambrose’s shorts, but Ambrose makes a disagreeable noise and pushes it back in.

“Did you,” Ambrose says, slowly. “Did you, like… wanna call it that?”

If there’s a silver lining on this cloud of abject misery, it’s that Ambrose sounds as awkward as Seth feels.

“No,” he says, almost over the end of Ambrose’s question. “No, definitely not. Of course not.”

“Oh, uh, right, okay,” says Ambrose, still visibly bewildered. “Yeah. Me neither, uh. Okay.”

“It just came out of my mouth,” Seth tries to explain, again attempting to take his hand back. Ambrose just makes a louder annoyed noise and grips Seth’s wrist to hold his hand where it is. “I don’t – it’s not. It’s not.”

“Course it’s not. We both know it’s not.” Ambrose shrugs, leaning his shoulder against the wall next to Seth’s and propping his hand on the wall beside Seth’s head. “Don’t worry about it.”

Seth’s pretty sure it’s something he should worry about, but he’s desperate to get away from this topic. “Good. Good, okay. Good.”

“I’d like to remind you, in case you’ve forgotten, you owe me an orgasm,” Ambrose tells him with utmost seriousness. “And if you don’t give it to me, I’m taking back my varsity jacket and breakin’ up with you.”

“I hate you,” Seth mumbles, tipping his head back against the wall in mortification.

“Does getting to third base mean we’re going steady?” Ambrose is grinning at him now. “Are we gonna go to prom together?”

“Shut up,” Seth says. He twists his wrist, and Ambrose’s eyelashes flutter, his forehead lightly leaning against Seth’s temple.

“You gonna make me?” Ambrose noses at the side of Seth’s face like an affectionate puppy. “Make me. Shut me up. Blow my mind, Seth.”

His breath is hot on Seth’s neck, his mouth still damp when his lips brush over Seth’s pulse.

Everything is hot, as close as they’re shoved together in here. Ambrose isn’t making much of an effort to keep quiet, either, and it make heat rise to Seth’s face with every unrestrained whimper and sighed expletive. If anybody were to walk past the closed door, it wouldn’t be very hard to figure out what they were doing.

When Ambrose comes, Seth’s hand cupped so that no suspicious stains form on their clothes, he’s muttering into Seth’s mouth, alternating words and kisses with a pattern so sporadic that it’s hard for Seth to keep up.

“Okay,” Ambrose murmurs, grasping Seth’s wrist and bringing his palm to his mouth. Even though Seth’s still orgasm-sensitive, his cock gives a feeble twitch at the sight of Ambrose calmly licking his own come off of Seth’s hand. “You can keep my varsity jacket.”

“Shut up, Dean,” Seth says without thinking. There’s only an old, dim light bulb for light in this closet, but even so, Seth thinks he sees the corners of Ambrose’s mouth turn up as he licks his lips.

“Don’t lie, Seth,” Ambrose says – or Dean, since Seth’s brain has made that decision for him without his say-so – with one last disgusting sounding slurp to the center of Seth’s palm, “you kinda like my smart mouth, don’t you?”

“I like it when it’s closed.” Seth’s full of shit and they both know it. 

Dean laughs, and he tastes like Seth when he kisses him, all soft mouth and his tongue touching to Seth’s bottom lip. It’s uncharacteristically gentle, or maybe it isn’t. Seth’s starting to wonder if there’s really any way for Dean to be out of character. Everything he does seems to have some sort of purpose to it.

“Do—“ Seth clears his throat. “Do you have a match tonight?”

“Nah.” Dean shrugs. “I was thinking I might try to make some trouble anyway. I hear Regal’s here tonight on commentary again, so I might have a few words for him.”

“Right, right.” Seth’s mood plummets just a little, but he does his best not to show it on his face. “Show him who’s boss.”

“Oh, he already knows who’s boss.” Dean noses at Seth’s neck as he talks, and his breath tickles. “That’s why he won’t face me. He’ll never give me that rematch.”

“He will.” Seth’s sure of that, even if he doesn’t want it to happen. And there it is, he’s said it, in his head if nowhere else: he doesn’t want that match to happen. “You know he will. It’s just a matter of time.”

Dean makes a considering noise. “Doesn’t matter, I guess. You got a match?” he asks.

“Oh, uh, yeah. Maddox, I think.” 

Dean wrinkles his nose in response. Seth understands the feeling.

“Congratulations on your victory,” Dean says wryly, patting Seth’s shoulder. “Hey, maybe we can celebrate it later.”

“I’m not opposed to the idea,” Seth replies. He ducks down to grab his bag, dropped in the frenzy of being dragged into a closet, and shoulders it. “If you’re not busy. And I’m not busy.”

“Don’t be busy,” reasons Dean, like it’s that simple, like Seth should listen to him and drop everything else. Seth’s not busy after the show, but if he was, he’s pretty sure he’d rearrange his schedule because Dean just asked him to, and that’s slightly terrifying.

“Okay,” he says. He pulls Dean in for a kiss so that he doesn’t have to say anything else, then twists the door knob behind him, checking both ways down the hallway before he leaves. The door’s already closed when he looks back to check, and he knows without them having established it that Dean will wait a minute or two before he leaves, too.

Routine. It’s a normal routine, and Seth doesn’t know if he likes it.

Dean wasn’t lying about finding trouble to get into, Seth discovers. He’s trying to get ready for his match, the monitor on as background noise, when he hears Dean’s voice coming from it. He’s telling Regal that he doesn’t like being ignored (which Seth knew, because Seth knows Dean, and Dean’s told Seth not to ignore him) and he tells Regal that he knows every trick in Regal’s book (also true, everything he’s saying is true) and that he’ll be better than Regal ever could be (he already is).

Regal doesn’t react at all. He just sits at the announce table and looks back at Dean and says nothing. Dean won’t be happy with that. He wants a reaction, that’s why he’s doing this, and Regal is just giving him nothing.

But Seth’s match is next, and he needs to focus on that instead of Ambrose’s issues.

Huh. He’s Ambrose again, now. 

Seth thinks that’s probably one of the reasons he hates that Dean won’t let this thing with Regal go. When he’s obsessive about this Regal thing, he’s Ambrose, someone Seth wouldn’t think twice about going head to head with in the ring. Seth doesn’t like that. He likes Dean being Dean, weird most of the time and an asshole most of the time but he’s still Dean. He’s Dean when he’s with Seth. And he’s Ambrose when he’s not.

That’s probably not a healthy way to think about it, but it’s all Seth’s got.

Dean was right to congratulate him ahead of time, because Seth wins his match without any real issues. Summer tries to get involved but that woman who’s been hanging around his matches lately makes the save, then leaves before he can talk to her. He doesn’t know what she wants with him, if she wants anything, because she never sticks around long enough for him to say anything to her.

Doesn’t matter. He got the win, and if some random lady wants to neutralize Summer to make sure he wins, he’ll take it. If she wants to talk to him, he’s not hiding.

When he gets to the back, Dean is waiting outside his door, tapping his foot impatiently.

“Who was that?” he asks Seth before Seth can get two words out. He looks agitated, and Seth raises his eyebrows.

“Problem?” he replies, pushing his door open. Dean follows him inside.

“No,” Dean snaps, closing the door behind him. “Who is she? Do you know her?”

“No idea,” Seth replies. “You wanna calm down?”

He’s trying to sound chiding, but it’s difficult when he’s mostly just amused.

“I’ve never been calmer.” Dean folds his arms across his chest, but it doesn’t hide how his fists are clenched. “I’ve just never seen her around, y’know, and you’ve never mentioned her.”

“Because I have no idea who she is. She just shows up sometimes and then leaves.” Seth smiles at him, and it clearly just makes Dean even more grumpy. It’s adorable.

“It’s weird, that’s what it is,” Dean grumbles. “Some chick helping you out for no reason. Nobody helps anybody and expects nothing in return.”

“Maybe so,” Seth allows. “But so far, she hasn’t asked for anything. Is this jealousy thing of yours going to be a recurring thing?” he asks just to see Dean scoff like a sneezing dog.

“I’m not – shut up, I’m not,” Dean says, dropping his arms back to his sides and deliberately relaxing his hands. “I’m just… concerned, y’know? She’s always hanging around in the shadows. It’s suspicious.”

“Uh-huh.” Seth sits down to start taking off his boots, keeping an eye on Ambrose in his peripheral vision. “Which is why you got all huffy about Roman, too?”

“I did not get _huffy_ about your little friend,” Dean huffs.

“Not many who’d call him little.” Seth begins to work on his other boot, tucking his lips into his mouth to keep from smiling. This is stupid. He shouldn’t be as pleased about this as he is.

“I could take him,” Dean mutters under his breath. He clears his throat. “Whatever. I don’t care. Who cares, anyway? Definitely not me.”

“Definitely not you, that’s what it sounds like.” Seth coughs. “You’re perfectly fine with it.”

“I’m—“ Dean stops in the middle of his sentence, and when Seth looks up, he’s narrowing his eyes. “Shut up,” Dean concludes.

“I didn’t say anything,” Seth protests, getting back to his feet. His toes are cold on the hard tile of the floor.

“You were thinking it,” accuses Dean, scowling at him. “God, you’re annoying. I don’t know why I put up with you, really.”

Silently, Seth hooks his thumbs in his trunks, shoving them down his hips. Dean’s eyes track the movement, and after a moment, he shrugs.

“Okay, sometimes you’re not so bad. Need a shower? I think you need a shower.”

He’s jerking his shirt off over his head already when Seth turns to make his way into the shower, and Seth smiles to himself. At least he knows there’s a surefire way to shut Dean up if he feels the need.

\--

It’s a long three weeks before Seth has another match on FCW, so it’s a good thing he has a neighbor to pass the time with. 

Dean never calls before he comes, as it were. Granted, Seth still doesn’t have his number, and he’s pretty sure Dean doesn’t have his (though he wouldn’t put it past him) because they live three feet from one another, so it’s not necessary. Most of the days Dean comes over, he knocks on Seth’s door sometime in the afternoon and stays until midnight or close to it.

It’s the closest thing Seth’s had to a relationship without either of them calling it a relationship in… well, ever.

Sometimes they don’t even really fool around. Sometimes they just exchange stories of their days in other promotions, or back-and-forth about their favorite classic matches.

Dean gets really heated about certain topics, as Seth learns on his second Sunday with no match and nothing to do. Dean’s been in his room about three hours now, and he’s spent most of that time insisting that Seth has all of the wrong opinions about everything to do with wrestling history. Seth should find it more annoying than he does.

“No. No, no, no,” Dean says flatly from the other end of Seth’s bed, his arms folded across his chest, his foot nudging Seth’s leg. “You’ve literally never been more wrong about anything in your entire life.”

“I just don’t get the hype,” Seth says, shrugging. “You can’t say the man was a great wrestler.”

“He was a great _personality_ ,” Dean says, gesticulating wildly with a cigarette he hasn’t lit. He’s just been fiddling with it the entire time he’s been here. “That’s way more important. It was ECW; you didn’t have to be good in the ring, you just beat the shit out of people. I went as him for Halloween once,” he recalls.

“Did you bust your head open?” Seth asks.

“Oh, yeah, buncha times,” answers Dean, smiling a little. “I liked busting my head open, though. Probably why I ended up doing so many death matches. I just liked the feeling, you know?”

“Not really,” Seth admits. “But I guess I kind of get it.”

“Anyway.” Dean shakes his head. “That’s not the point. The point is that you’re wrong and you should feel bad about it. Sandman was awesome. I wanted to be him when I grew up.”

“An overhyped drunk?” Seth asks, laughing when Dean digs his toes into his thigh.

“No, asshole,” Dean says. “I wanted to kick ass. Teach people a lesson.”

He pushes himself onto his knees and shuffles to the head of the bed on them, swinging one over Seth’s waist when he reaches it and then settling himself down like it’s any other seat. Seth blinks at him, his arms folded between his head and the pillows beneath them.

“Need something?” he asks as Dean rests back on his heels.

“Nope,” Dean says, bracing his hands on Seth’s chest. “Just wanna sit here now.”

“Okay.” Seth tries his best not to smile. He doesn’t think it works very well, because Dean is looking at him like he’s being an idiot. Though, to be honest, he does that a lot. “Still wanna be him when you grow up?” he asks to continue their conversation.

Dean seems to deliberate. “Nah,” he decides. “He got to wail on people with kendo sticks, but I bet he never got to give his varsity jacket to the hottest girl in school.”

“No,” Seth groans, dropping his head to the pillow so he can cover his face with his forearms. “Are you really never going to let that go?”

“I don’t think so,” Dean muses. He sounds gleeful. “I’ll probably remind you of it every couple weeks, make sure your head’s not getting too big.”

“I don’t think my head could ever get too big with you around,” Seth says, his words muffled against his wrist. 

Dean makes a noise of disagreement.

“Hey,” Seth protests, moving his arms away from his face so that he can glare more ferociously. Dean swoops in to kiss him, which might’ve been his plan all along. 

Definitely was his plan all along, from the smirk on his face when he pulls back.

“Kinda, uh, kinda wanted to talk to you about that, though,” Dean says, suddenly looking slightly to the left of Seth’s head.

“About…?” Seth leads, frowning a little. He tries to catch Dean’s eyes again, but the man’s an expert at avoiding his gaze. “About what?”

“About, uh, you know.” Dean looks beyond uncomfortable, and Seth’s left trying to play catch-up. “The, uh. Never mind,” he says suddenly. “You know what? It’s not important.”

“Sounds kind of important,” Seth says. “Just say it, man.”

Dean visibly grits his teeth. “It’s really not important,” he says.

Seth tries to think about what they were talking about before this. “You… think my head’s getting too big?” he offers. “Cause I’ll be honest, you don’t have much room to talk there, Dean.”

Dean’s features relax a little. “Nah,” he says, shrugging a shoulder. “Doesn’t matter. Don’t know why I brought it up in the first place.” 

“Just say whatever it is and get it over with,” Seth says, exasperated. “You clearly want to, so just say it.”

Dean sighs, and looks up at the ceiling. “You asked me a question, right? And I never really answered that question, because, like, it’s a stupid fuckin’ question. But I got to thinking it might not be a stupid question to you. So I just wanted to make sure we were cool, or if you needed, if you wanted a real answer to the question or not.”

Silently, Seth attempts to work through that tangle of words. Dean seems to think most of the questions Seth asks are stupid fuckin’ questions, so that doesn’t really help. He has to make the connection somehow between this and what they were talking about earlier.

“You… Uh,” he says as the answer punches him in the face. “You mean the, uh. The question we agreed we were both going to forget about?”

“That’s the one,” Dean replies. He’s still looking at the ceiling.

“Oh.” Seth’s not really sure what to say. “So this is, like, a serious conversation we’re having?”

“Hey, shithead, I told you to forget about it and you wouldn’t listen, so now we get to have this conversation,” Dean snaps. He’s still got that cigarette in his hand, but he’s just gripping it now instead of fiddling with it.

“Okay, okay,” Seth says, lifting his hands in placation. “Okay. Uh. Well, I mean. We could just not?”

But that’s not – he still wants to know. And it was a mistake, accidental, when he blurted out the question back at the arena, but it doesn’t mean he wants to know any less. Dean might think it’s a stupid question, but he’s right that Seth doesn’t. Not really.

“Or we could,” he amends before Dean can reply. “Maybe it’s stupid, I don’t know. I guess it might be. But I just want to know. I like having words for things.”

“You would,” Dean mutters before he sighs again. “Okay, so, what? You wanna say we’re – call me your –“

Simultaneously, they both cringe away from the word ‘boyfriend,’ though it’s the most obvious term. It doesn’t feel right, clangs wrong in Seth’s head.

“No,” he says decisively. “I don’t know what, but no, definitely not that.”

“But why does it have to be anything?” Dean asks, and he’s at least looking at Seth now, even if he’s scowling slightly. “Why can’t it just be this thing we’re doing? Why do you have to make it complicated?”

“I’m not,” Seth replies. He wants to fold his arms across his chest, but knows it’ll read as defensive, and he’s not. “I’m not,” he repeats. “I just, I don’t know. You’re right, it doesn’t matter.”

“I mean, really,” Dean continues, “what’d change, right? So, what, maybe we’re, uh, dating—“

Something like electricity fizzles in Seth’s spine, and he has to make an effort not to let it show on his face.

“—and that’s what it’s called, what we’re doing, but like, who gives a shit? Why’s it matter? Why do we have to call it anything and make it weird?”

“We’re dating?” is all Seth can think to ask. All of a sudden, it seems completely obvious. They’re having sex, and they go to the gym together, and Dean comes over to his hotel room so they can talk until the wee hours of the morning. Dean’s been making jokes about giving Seth his _varsity jacket_. Of course they’re dating. Seth’s a fucking idiot. 

Which is pretty much what Dean’s telling him without saying anything at all, through the look on his face.

“See, you’re gonna make it weird now,” he says, brows pulled together. “This is why I didn’t want to have this conversation. Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird.” Seth frowns back at him. “I just think that’s probably something we should both be aware of, if it’s happening.”

“It’s not my fault you haven’t been paying attention.” Dean rolls his eyes. “It doesn’t matter. I changed my mind. We’re not talking about this anymore. I can’t do it.”

He moves to get off of Seth, but Seth gets his hands on Dean’s hips and keeps him where he is. He’d like to say it’s because he’s just that strong, but the truth is that Dean’s not really trying that hard to get away.

“Okay, it doesn’t matter,” Seth agrees. “We don’t have to talk about it anymore. But just so we’re clear, uh… We both know what it’s called, now, that we’re doing, right?”

“I’ve known what it was called for weeks,” Dean points out, but he looks less annoyed now that he knows they won’t have to continue the conversation. “You’re the one asleep at the back of the class, princess.”

Seth rolls his eyes, shoving at Dean’s chest. He’s unsurprised when Dean doesn’t move. “Good thing I’ve got your varsity jacket to keep me warm, then,” he replies. 

He is a little surprised when Dean smiles, looking down between them. He’s playing absently with Seth’s fingers, toying with the bumps and ridges of his knuckles. It’s soothing, in a way. 

“Yeah, good thing,” Dean says. He presses his thumb into the center of Seth’s palm, then brings his hand to his mouth and kisses the back of it. He’s done it before, but it’s startling anyway, the gentle pressure of his lips against Seth’s skin. 

“What’re you doing?” Seth asks. Embarrassingly, he’s a little breathless. “What’s that for?”

Dean shrugs. “’Cause I like ya,” he says, like there’s no shame in it, like it’s something he doesn’t feel self-conscious about. “’Cause why not, right?”

“Why not, right?” Seth repeats. Dean’s fingers are still loosely curled around his in something that neither of them are going to call an instance of illicit handholding, even though it’s totally illicit handholding.

“C’mere,” Dean says. He mutters it into Seth’s mouth when Seth kisses him, _c’mere_ , and Seth does his best but in some ways he thinks when Dean says that he’s talking about something other than Seth’s mouth or body. 

Seth bites Dean’s lower lip, his fingers trailing down his back to the waist of his jeans, dipping low even though he’s wearing a belt, the smooth leathery feel of it cool against Seth’s fingertips.

“I wanna blow you,” he mumbles, his other palm flat against the hot skin of Dean’s side. 

Dean laughs and it’s throaty, amused. “How can I say no to that?” he asks. He makes again to swing his leg back, to move off Seth’s waist, but Seth grabs his thigh to pull him back down.

“No, no, stay there,” he says, the idea forming in his head as he speaks. “Just, lemme, stay there.”

“Uh, okay.” 

Seth can feel Dean’s eyes on him as he shuffles down on the bed, until Dean’s straddling his chest rather than his waist.

“Like this,” Seth says. His hands are resting on Dean’s thighs, and he’s pretty sure that his neck would have to be at a terrible angle to do this if Dean didn’t work with him. He doesn’t think that’ll be a problem, from the way he can feel Dean’s thigh muscles tight underneath his palms, his breath coming more quickly.

“All right,” Dean says. His voice is quieter, one hand braced against the headboard above and behind Seth, looking down at him. He coughs, then lifts his shirt to undo his belt, the clink-clank of the metal clasp comparatively loud. When he unbuttons and unzips his jeans, he doesn’t take the belt off, and something about that is ridiculously hot to Seth.

He licks his dry lips, watching Ambrose shove his jeans down his hips just enough that he can take his cock out, already thickening up. It’s kind of a rush to think that Seth hasn’t even done anything yet and Dean’s already turned on.

Dean takes a moment to stroke himself, and whether it’s to put on a bit of a show or just because he knows it’s a lot harder to suck a dick that’s not hard yet, Seth appreciates it. He appreciates it even more when Dean uses that hand to guide his dick to Seth’s mouth, his belt buckle cold where it rests against the side of Seth’s neck.

Dean’s forearm’s resting along the top of the headboard, the other hand staying where it is, steadying himself. Dean is just resting the tip of his cock against Seth’s bottom lip, not pushing forward, just letting it rest there. When Seth takes a deep breath, Dean shudders a little, and when Seth’s tongue licks out over the head, he swears under his breath.

“I think you might kill me, y’know,” Dean says. It’s almost conversational. “That’s what they’re gonna write on the coroner’s report: ‘Cause of death: Seth Rollins and his fuckin’ pretty mouth.’”

Seth laughs softly and Dean bites his lip, hard enough that it looks like it hurts. 

“Okay,” he says, and his voice is strained. “Okay. You good?” he checks.

“Yeah,” Seth replies. It’s a little slurred, but he lets his tongue curl around in a flick at the end of it, and Dean mutters another _fuck_.

It’s a weird angle, but the pillows help it to keep from becoming unbearable, lifting his head just enough that Dean can push forward in a slow rock of his hips. He doesn’t shove his dick down Seth’s throat. He just leans with his hips and lets Seth dictate the pace.

“Good, that’s good,” Dean praises. It shouldn’t make Seth feel as nice as it does. He knows Dean likes to talk when his mouth’s not occupied; whenever they fuck, Dean’s mouth runs a mile a minute if Seth doesn’t find a way to shut it up.

Seth starts out slow, makes sure he doesn’t blow full steam ahead because at this angle he’d probably choke to death. His hands are free, but he’s doing most of the work with his mouth, the tip of his tongue drawn to a point, stroking leisurely against the underside of the head of Dean’s dick. 

Dean’s clearly doing his best not to move too much, tiny stutters of his hips the only giveaway that he’s finding it difficult. Seth’s fingers curl, digging into the side of Dean’s thigh hard. He wants to close his eyes, sort of, to concentrate, but in this position it would feel like too much, he thinks. It’d just feel like giving up too many senses, and Seth just can’t.

What he can do is this, this slow, easy suction, and it’s kind of messy, because Seth’s motor control isn’t perfect from here, and his chin’s getting wet, but Dean doesn’t mind. He’s muttering quiet encouragement Seth doesn’t need. When Seth pushes Dean’s hand out of the way to grip him on his own, Dean moves that hand to Seth’s hair, petting softly.

It feels almost ethereal, the sounds between them mostly breath and the quiet whir of the air conditioning in the background. That’s another reason Seth doesn’t quite want to close his eyes. If he does, he’s not sure he’ll be able to stay here, in his own head, feels like he might just float away, and that scares him a little.

“Y’okay?” Dean asks. It’s gruff, a consonant stuck in his throat.

Seth hums an affirmative and Dean shivers in response, his thumb touching to the corner of Seth’s mouth where it’s stretched around him.

“You look good,” Dean says. “Really good. Like, fuck, I can’t believe I get to see this. I can’t believe you let me.”

He looks a little confused, even, when Seth glances up at him. Like he honestly just can’t believe that Seth’s letting him do this, like he can’t understand why Seth would want to do this. Seth’s mouth is a little occupied right now, but if he wasn’t, he thinks he’d probably want to kiss Dean. Just because.

“You’re gonna be so – you’re – I’m—“ It’s not often that Seth’s heard Dean at a loss for words, and it’s kind of nice to know that he has the power to make that happen. He has the power to make Dean Ambrose, master wordsmith, king of the microphone, speechless. It feels almost as good as pinning him does.

Dean bites his lip, shoving Seth’s hair out of his face. “I’m,” he says, and that’s all, seemingly still at a loss for words. He touches Seth’s ear, making a frustrated noise.

“Mhm,” Seth hums to let Dean know he’s understood, splaying his fingers on Dean’s pelvis as he slides his mouth down as far as he can without breaking his neck. Dean sounds like he’s having an out of body experience, the sounds he makes when he comes, suddenly and messily. Seth swallows as well as he can but it smears around his mouth, wet and hot and dirty and Seth has to suppress his own shiver because he fucking _likes_ it and he’s not sure how to feel about that.

When Seth tips his head back and Dean’s cock drops from his mouth, Dean pushes Seth’s lower lip down with his thumb, where it feels rubbed raw, and Seth automatically closes his lips around it and sucks. He can hear the way Dean’s breath catches in his throat, and he can taste the salt-bitter of Dean’s come on his skin.

“Fucking unreal,” Dean mutters, his voice wavering in and out. “Out of this fucking world.”

Seth’s limbs are tingling like he’s just had a really big static shock, all over his body, his fingertips and toes gone over pins and needles. He’s not even the one who came and he still feels kind of exhausted.

Not exhausted enough to respond with anything but enthusiasm when Dean scrambles down in all of his long-limbed, frantic glory, but exhausted all the same.

When they’re lying in a heap of arms and legs and sweat, Dean grunts, “I’m gonna take a shower,” at him, kissing Seth’s hip before he rolls off the bed to his feet. Seth proudly notes that he wobbles a little bit before he steadies himself.

Dean pauses in the doorway to the bathroom, after he’s flicked the light on, and leans back out the door to look at Seth.

“What?” Seth asks. He could use a shower himself, sticky and damp, but he really doesn’t feel like moving. He rolls onto his back and stretches his arms above his head. “What?” he repeats when Dean doesn’t answer.

“I think I’m gonna stay here tonight,” Dean says without preamble. He just lays it out there, eyes on Seth, waiting.

Seth doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. “Okay,” he finally replies, shrugging his shoulders.

“That’s good with you?” asks Dean. It sounds like a challenge, as so many of the things Dean says do. “No problem with that?”

“None.” Seth looks back at him until a smile starts to tug at Dean’s lips. “Now take a shower, you fucking stink.”

Dean flips him off, but he’s still smiling, so Seth counts it as a win for him.

\--

When Seth gets to the arena the next week, he finds out he’s in an eight-man scramble match for the number one contendership to the FCW title. It’s the first match on, so he has to get ready quickly, get himself into the right headspace for this. A battle royal is a long shot but it’s still a chance, and he’s determined to get the title match that he should’ve gotten a long time ago, without interference, without a disqualification, just a wrestling match.

But there are seven other guys who want that match. Seth has to be better than them. He has to want it more. And he does.

He’s not altogether surprised when Dean’s in his locker room once he arrives, dressed in street clothes and acting like Seth’s late for an appointment they never made.

“You in that scramble?” Dean asks him without any small talk.

“Uh, yeah, and it’s the first match so I need to be ready… now,” Seth replies, already shedding clothing. He notices Dean eying him appreciatively in his peripheral vision, and, rolling his eyes, throws his shirt at him.

“What?” Dean protests, draping Seth’s shirt around his neck. “Just admiring the view. Thought you might want some moral support.”

Seth snorts, yanking on his trunks. “How thoughtful of you,” he says. “Seriously, though, I need to get ready for this match.”

“I’ll get out of your hair.” Dean holds up his hands. “I can see where I’m not wanted.”

“Drama queen,” Seth mutters. “Didn’t say you had to leave,” he points out, “just that I need to get ready.”

Dean raises his eyebrows and settles in his seat farther, folding his arms and crossing one leg over the other.

Seth does his best to ignore Dean while he’s running through his stretches as quickly as he can without sacrificing the quality. To his credit, Dean’s not making a nuisance of himself, just watching Seth, not even saying anything. Seth knows that has to be hard, considering Dean’s propensity for running his mouth.

He can hear the show starting and bounces on his toes. He’s got this. He’s fuckin’ _got this_.

“You got this,” Dean says. It’s the first thing he’s said in quite a while. “Knock ‘em dead, okay?”

“Always do,” Seth replies, rolling his shoulders. He shoots a smile behind him. “Thanks, though.”

It just so happens that he does knock them dead. It takes him a minute to realize after he eliminates Rick Victor, he’s the number one contender now. He gets a title shot against Kruger later tonight.

“Told you,” Dean says when Seth gets back to the locker room. Somehow, Dean wins a contest despite not being involved in any match. “Fuckin’ told you, didn’t I?”

Seth sticks his tongue out. It’s silly and stupid and childish, but he’s still a little euphoric from the win. Kruger’s good, sure, but Seth’s better. He knows he is, and so does everybody else. He’s gonna win the title tonight.

“You gonna do something with that?” Dean says. He’s sidled closer while Seth was lost in thought, now mere inches away.

“I have a match in like twenty minutes,” says Seth, which he’s aware isn’t a no.

Dean shrugs. “Plenty of time for what I’ve got in mind.”

“I gotta prepare.” It’s apologetic, but Seth knows he can’t take his eye off the prize. He has to get it right this time. He has to win this match.

After a moment, Dean shrugs again. “Yeah, of course,” he says. “No problem. I get that.”

He does get it, and more importantly, he gets Seth. He _gets_ Seth. 

But he can’t be having any kind of revelatory bullshit before this match, so he tells himself firmly he’ll deal with that later, and puts it in yet another one of those boxes in his head he has for stuff Dean makes his brain think.

Dean keeps his word and leaves Seth alone to pace and think and keep his muscles warm. He knows from experience that the absolute worst thing to do when you’re competing in two matches in a single night is to let yourself cool down between them. You’re just asking to cramp up and lose momentum.

“I’m gonna wait at the curtain,” he says once the Cameron/Rogers match is over, his heart rate picking up. His match is next.

“Hey.” Dean pushes himself to his feet from where he was sitting, watching, and takes the three steps to stand in front of Seth. Seth’s bouncing in place, but he stops for just a second, and Dean kisses him.

“Not a good luck kiss,” Dean says, their foreheads pressed together. “’Cause you don’t need it. Fucking kill it, okay?”

“I’m gonna.” Seth curls his hands around Ambrose’s wrists, where he’s touching Seth’s face. “You know I will.”

Dean half-smiles at him. “Yeah,” he says, “and you know once you win that title, we’re gonna end up in the ring together again.”

He knows. He has to know; they’re two of the top stars on this show. It’s inevitable.

“Whatever happens, happens,” Seth says. He shakes out his hands, and Dean steps back from him. “We’ll deal with it when we get there.”

“We’ll deal with it when we get there,” Dean agrees. “Go get your belt, champ.”

Champ. That’s what he is. He’s the fucking champion, belt or not, and he’s about to prove it.

Even with all that, even having the confidence, and the knowledge that he’s better than Kruger, it’s still somehow a shock to look down after the match, to see the belt in his hands, to hear his name announced as the winner, as the new Florida Heavyweight champion. It’s still somehow so much, even though he knew he could do it, it’s still… He won the title. It’s his. He won.

He’s not sure how he makes it back to the locker room without taking his eyes off the title, but the next time he looks up, he’s sat down on a chair and Dean’s across from him, but he’s not looking at the belt. He’s looking at Seth.

“I won,” Seth says, gesturing toward Dean with the belt. His belt. “I won the title.”

“What did I tell you?” Dean runs his fingers lightly over the gold lettering at the top of the belt. “Told you to go get your belt. Champ.”

“I got it.” Seth’s voice is barely a whisper. “I won. It’s my belt now.”

He’s aware at the back of his mind that he’s repeating himself, but it doesn’t really matter. Dean understands. Dean always understands, pretty much. When it matters.

“You wanna go out on the town? Celebrate?” Dean suggests, his thumb tracing the ‘G’ in ‘heavyweight’. 

Seth considers it. It’s probably what he’s expected to do, probably what he should want to do, but it’s really not.

“Kind of just wanna go home,” he says, watching the light glint off the championship. “Hang out.”

He swallows the lump in his throat, and looks up to meet Dean’s eyes. “With you,” he adds. “Long as you don’t have other plans.”

He’s not positive, but he thinks that Dean smiles at that, ducking to hide it and clearing his throat. “Uh, yeah, sure. Okay.”

“Okay,” Seth repeats. “Okay. Good.”

“Good,” Dean parrots back. Then they’re just sitting there, smiling and not looking at each other, and Seth’s the champion, and this is the best he’s pretty sure his life is going to get for a while.

Dean coughs. “Wanna fuck me with the belt on?” he offers. He did it on purpose, Seth’s sure, to break the moment.

He hadn’t really realized it until that second, but, “I really wanna fuck you with the belt on,” Seth says, his fingers tightening on the leather strap. 

“Let’s get out of here, then,” Dean says, grinning, happy with himself for planting the idea in Seth’s head, no doubt. “Before all your admirers start lining up at your door.”

“You’re my only admirer,” Seth says, standing and settling the belt on the chair he’s just vacated while he changes out of his gear. “I need a shower, though. Mind?”

Dean rolls his eyes, but shoos Seth away. “If you’re not out in fifteen, I’m takin’ the belt and running,” he calls after Seth.

Despite that, Seth’s almost positive Dean’s lying, as he grabs clothes out of his bag. Almost. 98% sure that he’s not actually going to take the belt. Even so, he tries to hurry through his shower as much as he can without sacrificing hygiene.

It turns out that he didn’t have to worry about Dean running off with his belt, because when he leaves the shower, scrubbing over his hair with a towel, he finds that his locker room is far more occupied than it was when he got into the shower.

Dean’s sulking, that much is clear, arms folded across his chest as he leans against the wall and jerks his head at the other person there. “ _You’re my only admirer_ ,” he mocks quietly. Seth ignores him, and so does Roman, lingering a bit awkwardly in the middle of the room.

“Hey, Roman,” Seth greets, shoving his towel back into his bag. He’s suddenly really, really glad that he took clothes with him into the shower. “Long time, no see.”

“Too long.” Roman offers a hand, and Seth shakes it. He thinks Dean scoffs in the corner. “Thought I’d stop by, offer my congratulations before you took off.” His eyes move to Dean and then back to Seth. “Didn’t know you had company.”

“Yeah, he does that,” Seth says, stepping back to carefully place his belt into his bag and zip it. “Thanks, by the way,” he adds. “For the – congratulations.”

“Of course,” Roman replies. “You deserve it. Not that I’m not going to be competing for that title,” he amends. “But tonight is your night. You’ve earned it. Probably more than anybody else here.”

“I really appreciate that,” Seth says. He hefts his bag, and gives Roman a smile. “Seriously, thank you. It means a lot.”

Roman shrugs. “Just being honest, bro. If it couldn’t be me, I’m glad it was you.”

“Thank you,” Seth says again. He doesn’t pay attention to the way Dean is muttering ‘bro’ incredulously to himself across the room. “Really. Thank you.”

He knows how humbling it is to congratulate a guy who just won a title you couldn’t win. It’s an incredibly selfless thing to do, for Roman to tell Seth that he’s glad it’s him who won the title. It’s something Seth will remember.

“I’ll get out of your way,” Roman says, looking at Dean out of the corner of his eye again. “That’s all I wanted to say. And to tell you that if you need someone to have your back, just give me a shout.”

Seth will take all the implicit allies he can get, if they’re offering. He offers Roman his own hand, a mirror of Roman’s greeting when he’d come in, and Roman takes it with a smile.

“I’ll see you next week, I’m sure,” says Roman smoothly. He nods at Seth. “Have a nice night, man.”

He looks at Dean, who’s glowering, and then back to Seth, shaking his head. “Would not have called that,” he murmurs, so quietly that Seth’s pretty sure Dean can’t even hear it.

Seth huffs, almost but not quite a laugh. “Trust me, man, I wouldn’t have, either.”

“As long as you know what you’re doing.” Roman shrugs. “Far be it from me to judge.”

Smiling, Seth puts a hand on Roman’s shoulder. “Have a good night, Roman.”

“Back at you.” Roman leaves with another nod to Seth and, after a moment, one to Dean as well. Dean actually looks taken aback by it, and he narrows his eyes at the broad span of Roman’s shoulders as he makes his way out the door.

“I don’t trust him,” Dean says the moment Roman’s no longer visible.

“Do you trust anyone?” Seth asks, raising an eyebrow and then looking around to make sure he’s not forgetting anything. He has to look back at Dean when his stare becomes too intense, an almost tangible heat against the side of Seth’s head.

“Yes,” Dean says. He doesn’t say anything else.

He doesn’t really have to. Seth swallows, a lump in his throat, and jerks his head toward the door.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” he says. Dean is still staring at him while he gestures with a hand for Seth to exit first.

“I’m just saying,” Dean says, closing the door behind him and keeping close to Seth’s shoulder, though that might just be because the hallways are a tight squeeze. “You’re too nice. You trust people too easily.”

“You think I should be more like you and have no friends?” Seth asks. It comes out a lot more harshly than it sounded in his head, and he winces, wondering if he should backpedal.

Dean just snorts, though. “And when was the last time someone turned their back on me?” he asks. “Walked out on a tag match or something? Friends get you in trouble. They get you hurt. I don’t fuckin’ need ‘em.”

“We’re friends,” Seth offers. It’s quiet, because he’s almost positive it’s not something he should say, but he is. Fuck it. He’s the champion. He can do whatever he wants.

Dean doesn’t respond until they’re almost to Seth’s car. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, we’re friends. And you could probably hurt me worse than anybody, so.” He shrugs, and before Seth can say anything to that, Dean slips around the back of the car to get in the passenger seat.

Seth takes the extra time to open the back door and shove his bag back there, to let himself think about what exactly he’s supposed to say now. It’s not like – he’s noticed that he’s really the only person Dean ever _talks_ to. He’s just never thought about it like that before. He’s never thought of himself as an _exception_. Because Dean does talk to him. Dean does hang out with him. Dean doesn’t have friends, but he’s friends with Seth.

He takes a deep breath. Okay. Okay, so, what now?

Seth opens his door and settles into the seat, adjusting the rearview for no reason. Dean’s all buckled in, one arm banded around his middle, the other hand at his mouth. Seth can’t tell if he’s biting his nails or just touching his lips. He’s noticed that Dean does both, sometimes. He takes another deep breath.

“I’m—“

“Shut up, Seth,” Dean mumbles around his fingertips. “Just drive, okay?”

Seth presses his lips together and starts the car. They make it halfway back to the hotel in silence before he clears his throat.

“Sorry,” he says. It comes out as though he’s speaking through sludge, slow and difficult.

Dean laughs a little, cutting his eyes at Seth. “For what?” he asks.

“Not sure,” Seth admits, and Dean laughs again. “But I either did something or, I guess, you think I’m gonna do something that’s worth apologizing for. So I’m doing it in advance.”

“Don’t apologize for shit you haven’t even done wrong yet,” Dean advises. He’s moved his hand away from his mouth. “Y’never know, right? Maybe you’ll surprise me.” He shrugs and looks out the window. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“It’s what I live for,” Seth says wryly, pulling into a parking space. “You still comin’ over?” he asks. He wants to give Dean the out. Somehow, the air’s gotten very heavy, and it’s not exactly how Seth wants to spend his victory night.

Thankfully, Dean squints at him like he’s said something idiotic. “We have plans,” he says with a smile that looks real enough.

“We do have plans.” Seth smiles to himself, pushing his door open. Dean does the same on the other side, and loiters while Seth gets his bag. It’s a solid weight, heavier than it was when he got to the arena. “You need to stop off at yours?” he asks, pushing a hand through his hair, still damp at the ends.

“Got everything I need,” Dean replies, hooking his bag over his arm. “Lead the way.”

They hardly get through the door of Seth’s hotel room before Dean’s pressing him up against it, nosing against Seth’s neck and practically shoving a hand down his pants.

“Not wasting any time, are you?” Seth asks, caught between wincing away from and craning into the rough scratch of Dean’s stubble. It tickles and scrapes in equal measures.

“Nope,” Dean responds, giving up on getting his hand past the waist of Seth’s jeans and instead just rubbing him firmly enough that Seth groans, his head tipping back against the door. “Been thinking about this since the arena.”

Seth bites out a curse when Dean tucks his hands into his back pockets to press Seth closer, and bites the line of Seth’s jaw so hard that it legitimately hurts. Seth wonders if he’s drawn blood, and says between gritted teeth, “Calm down.”

That’s all it takes for Dean to soften, his grip loosening, lips and tongue instead of teeth. He doesn’t apologize, but the _sorry_ is implicit in the way he presses kisses into the skin beneath Seth’s ear.

“Bed,” Seth insists, squawking when instead of just maneuvering them in that direction, Dean curls his hands under Seth’s thighs and heaves. Seth gets an arm around Dean’s neck, and Dean _carries_ him to the bed, dropping him down on the mattress with a solid _flump_.

Dean is covering him almost immediately, his warm weight like a heavy blanket in the humidity of the room. Seth’s already sweating a little, his shower useless in retrospect. Dean kisses him like it’s the last thing he’s ever going to do, one hand in the middle of Seth’s chest, the other bracing him against the bed.

It’s almost frantic, the way he’s kissing Seth, and it’s not how Seth wants to do this. He grasps Dean’s wrist, his thumb pressed to the soft underside of it, where Dean’s all delicate bones and sinew like anybody else, and he says, “Hey,” against Dean’s mouth.

“Busy,” Dean mutters back, but he eases up enough that Seth can breathe, his hand curling in Seth’s shirt like he’s debating whether or not he’d like to just yank until it’s gone.

“I’m right here,” Seth says, using his other hand to push lightly at Dean’s shoulder. He’s not sure if he’s saying the right thing, but it feels right to him. “We’ve got all night. Take it easy, okay? I’m right here,” he says again. He’s not sure why that’s the most important part to get through Dean’s head, but it is.

Dean blinks at him like he’s dazed, his eyebrows pulled together, eyes searching Seth’s. Slowly, he nods, and when he lowers his mouth to Seth’s again, it feels less like fighting and more like kissing.

“Off,” Dean says, tugging at the bottom of Seth’s shirt. It takes a little wriggling, because despite Dean’s insistence, he won’t actually move far enough away that Seth can get his shirt off, but eventually he manages to sit up and jerk it off over his head. “Good,” Dean grunts, biting Seth’s collarbone to punctuate it.

He says _off_ one more time, to get Seth’s pants and shoes off, and even though he doesn’t say it when he frowns and looks down at himself, Seth thinks he can hear Dean say it in his head before he sheds his own clothes. Dean seems to have regressed to one-syllable words, and Seth would be lying if he said he wasn’t a bit smug about it, even if he’s not sure why it’s happening.

“Belt,” Dean says firmly, leaning off the bed, almost toppling over in his effort to snag the handle of Seth’s bag without putting his feet on the floor.

“Is the ground lava?” Seth asks, pillowing his arms beneath his head. Dean looks at him like he’s lost his mind, as he unzips the bag and retrieves the heavy championship belt.

“What?” asks Dean, narrowing his eyes at Seth. “No. Put it on.”

Still pretty monosyllabic. Dean drops the belt onto Seth’s stomach, and it knocks the air out of him a little.

“You were serious about that?” Seth sits up enough to pull the straps behind him, fumbling with the fasten because he’s doing it without looking. It snaps, finally, as Dean gives him a look.

“You’re kidding, right?” he asks. “Course I’m serious. I wanna see if I can come on it from this angle.”

“Isn’t that kind of disrespectful?” Seth asks without thinking. He deserves it when Ambrose rolls his eyes this time.

“Who exactly do you think you’re fucking, here?” Dean says. It’s at that point that he straddles Seth’s thighs, and Seth’s brain shorts out as he realizes what angle Dean was talking about.

“What?” he says. Dean seems perfectly comfortable, taking care to balance himself before he leans over to grab his own bag, much closer to the bed than Seth’s had been, rummaging in the side pocket and triumphantly wielding a foil packet and a little sachet of what he can only assume is lube. “From – what angle?”

Dean straight-up laughs at him. “Try not to lose it before you’re even inside me, okay?” he says, muffled around the condom, which he’s ripping open with his teeth. Every sex-ed class Seth’s ever had flashes before his eyes, but now doesn’t seem like the time to educate Dean on the particulars of condom safety.

“I’m fine,” Seth says. He clears his throat to get rid of the hint of a croak in it. “I’m fine,” he repeats.

“Mhmm.” Dean takes his time getting the condom onto Seth, using his hand to coax him to full hardness with easy, slow pulls, until Seth feels like tackling Dean and putting the condom on himself. Just before he’s bracing to shove Dean off of him, Dean starts to roll the condom down his dick, in tiny increments, smiling all the way. Asshole.

“I’m going to die,” Seth informs him, and Dean snorts, but he rolls the rest of the condom onto him at a normal speed.

“Princess,” Dean mutters. He rips the lube open with his teeth as well, the barbarian, but instead of handing it to Seth, he just slicks up his own fingers and reaches behind himself. “Faster,” he says in explanation, a little breathless. Seth settles a hand at Dean’s waist, his thumb pressing against the jut of his hipbone. Whether it’s to steady Dean or steady himself, he’s not sure.

“Don’t get lube on my belt,” Seth admonishes, feeling drips making his thigh damp, as Dean’s wrist works visibly behind him.

“I won’t get lube on your belt,” Dean says, rolling his eyes again. “I already said I wanna come on it.”

“That’s worse,” Seth grumbles, but he shuts his mouth when Dean appears satisfied with the job he’s done preparing himself, fingers glistening as he wraps them around Seth instead to give him a perfunctory tug.

“You good?” Dean checks, shuffling farther up Seth’s body and leaning forward. Seth doesn’t even have a chance to reply before he’s choking on his words, as Dean grasps Seth’s cock at the base to keep him where he is, rocking himself back in short, quick bursts until he’s fully seated and all of the air rushes out of Seth’s lungs in one whoosh.

“Oh my god,” Seth says. He has both hands on Dean’s hips now, gripping so tightly he thinks he might leave bruises. “Oh my god.”

“Yeah, good,” Dean says, something like laughter in his words. “Just how I like you.”

“Move,” Seth says, insists, demands, sliding one hand down Dean’s thigh and back up because he needs something to hold on to. “Move, fucking move.”

“Easy,” Dean replies. He laughs for real now, and it sounds exhilarated. “We’ve got all night.”

The leather inside of the belt is sweltering against Seth’s skin, the gold plated front glinting in the dingy hotel lighting. Dean’s back arches, his body all smooth lines and angles as he begins to move, slowly at first and picking up speed as he gets more comfortable with the position.

Seth should feel vulnerable like this, on his back looking up at someone he’s not sure yet he fully trusts – can’t fully trust, not when he’s champion and Dean’s still on a crusade to get a match against William Regal – but he doesn’t feel vulnerable at all, really. Maybe he trusts Dean more than he wants to admit to himself. More than he should.

The belt gets bumped with every move they make because Seth didn’t fasten it tight enough, Dean’s knees nudging it higher until it can’t move past where it is, stuck under the lowest set of Seth’s ribs.

“Fuck,” he sighs, to say something, to have more than silence and the sound of Dean panting. Dean’s bracing himself on Seth’s chest with both hands, eying Seth’s lips like he’d like to kiss him but can’t figure out how.

“Can you feel that?” Dean asks, his tongue wetting his lips. His eyes are darker than they usually are. “Can you feel it?”

“Yeah.” Seth doesn’t know what _it_ is, but he definitely feels it, tingling at his fingertips. “Yeah, yeah, I feel it.”

Dean laughs, like it’s spilling out of him, like he just can’t help it. “I fuckin’ l—y’know?” he says, his fingernails digging into Seth’s skin. “Y’know?” he asks more urgently.

“I know, I know,” Seth replies, but he’s not sure he does know, except maybe, maybe he does, maybe he does know, but how’s he supposed to know if he knows when they’re doing this and his brain is otherwise occupied? 

But Dean grins wildly at him, and his head tilts back enough that his neck’s a smooth, taut line, and he comes and he’s laughing while he comes and it’s _all over the fucking belt_ just like he said he would, and isn’t that just like Dean? Isn’t that just like him?

Seth’s pretty sure he almost bites his tongue off in the middle of a laugh of his own, an orgasm like the best joke you’ve ever heard.

Dean slumps down on top of him, Seth slipping out of him without any fanfare. His face tucks into Seth’s neck, and Seth kisses his temple before he can really think about it, one hand tucking into the back of Dean’s hair where it’s a fluffy mess.

“Told y’,” Dean mutters, his voice exhausted. “All over it.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’d come first in the Olympics,” Seth replies, wishing he was less endeared by the way that Dean nuzzles against his jaw. “Ha. Come.”

“Idiot.” Dean shifts uncomfortably, sighing and scooting to drop off to the side of Seth. “Fucking thing was digging into my hip,” he grumbles, smearing a hand across Seth’s belt. “You’re gonna have to get that dry-cleaned,” he says with a hiccup of smug laughter in his voice.

“Asshole,” Seth replies pointedly, tugging at the ends of Dean’s hair.

“Whatever,” says Dean, kissing Seth’s cheek sloppily. “You love me and you know it.”

It’s a good thing he hops off the bed then, waltzing into the bathroom to clean up, because Seth’s vision goes white and for a good thirty seconds, he legitimately forgets how breathing works.

 _It was a joke_ , he tells himself furiously, staring at the ceiling and trying to get his lungs to work how they’re supposed to. _Fucking breathe, it was a joke, he was making a joke_.

Still, his heart’s beating faster than it should be, even this soon after they’ve finished, and his mind’s moving a million miles an hour, too.

Is that? Does he? Does _Dean_? Should they talk about this? Well, that’s a definite no. They should definitely not talk about this. Only bad things happen when Seth tries to bring up things like that.

And it was a joke, anyway. It was definitely, positively, absolutely a joke, and Seth’s getting worked up over nothing at all.

He’s told himself that ten times by the time Dean gets back, and it still sounds more like a lie than anything else.

“What?” Dean says, dropping back onto the bed next to Seth. He smells like soap and still a little like sweat, and he drapes a leg over Seth’s while he settles. “You see a ghost while I was in the bathroom?”

“Huh?” Seth asks. He automatically tucks his hand back into Dean’s hair, and feels a little betrayed by his own body when he realizes. “What?”

“You,” Dean prods. “You look like—“ He cuts himself off. “I dunno. You good?”

He’s frowning at Seth now, leaning up onto his elbow. He doesn’t look like somebody who just said something really important. He just looks like the guy that Seth’s… dating. It’s his head, he can say it like that if he wants to.

“Yeah,” he decides, finally, urging Dean’s head back down onto his shoulder. “Yeah. I’m good.”


	3. instead of fretting over all the ways we could give up

The next few weeks go by like a dream, so quickly that it’s hard for Seth to keep up. He hadn’t realized how much extra work there is in being the champion. He’d had more media and attention when he had the 15 title, sure, but that was nothing compared to this.

He barely has time to think about anything at all, but somehow his stupid brain makes room for one thing amidst all the calls and phone numbers and congratulatory texts and weird campy photoshoots.

_You love me and you know it. You love me and you know it. You love me and you know it._

By the time he can actually sit down and think about it all, it’s been a month, almost, and nothing’s changed. 

He finds himself staring at Dean sometimes, when he comes over to visit (at midnight, naturally, because that’s the only time Seth’s not busy, and Seth will fall asleep on the man’s goddamn shoulder and wake up with snoring in his ear) and wondering if it _was_ a joke. If he’s learned anything about Dean, it’s that everything he says means something. He never says anything that’s just a throwaway comment. There’s always something. There’s always _something_.

Seth even almost brings it up once. Just once. He’s tired from a long media day and the room is too cold but he’s too lazy to get up and turn down the air conditioner, and he’s got his face half buried in his pillow, listening to Dean ramble on about a match he had in 2008, and he almost looks up at him and asks.

The problem is that he doesn’t know exactly what he’d be asking. He doesn’t know what would come out of his mouth. He doesn’t know if he’d say _Were you joking?_ or if he’d say _I didn’t know it, but I do now, maybe_.

And then he realizes what he’s thinking, the thought he’s just accidentally had, and he shoves his face back into his pillow and curses his entire life.

Because he doesn’t. He’s not. He’s almost sure that he doesn’t, and he’s not, except for tiny moments where he’s just not sure.

Dean brings him a burger during his tiny lunch window, and silently eats with him, doesn’t ask him to sign anything or say anything or do anything.

He talks about some match he had against someone who’ll never be somebody, talking with his hands, all enthusiasm and animation and when Seth kisses him, he looks confused.

Seth wakes up one morning with a hickey sucked dark on his hip, and when he’s brushing his teeth, Dean wanders up behind him, sleepy warmth and quiet and he wraps his arms around Seth’s waist and presses into the bruise with his thumb, nosing into Seth’s hair.

And sometimes Seth thinks, maybe. Maybe.

He’s too busy to think anything more than that. He’s too busy to sit down and really figure it out, so he just lets it be that. He lets it be maybe. Because there’s nothing too bad about maybe. Maybe doesn’t mean anything, but it could, if Seth wanted it to. He’ll leave it at maybe until he can figure out whether or not maybe isn’t maybe at all.

He watches the shows, in his locker room in the back, always on hand now even if they don’t have any plans for him. He makes himself available because he’s the champion now, and that’s what you do when you’re the champion, isn’t it? You make yourself available. 

Seth watches in the back as Ambrose keeps chugging forward in his crusade to get a match with Regal. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t shut his mouth, getting more and more insistent about it by the week. Something’s gonna crack soon, and Seth doesn’t know if it’s going to be Dean’s head or his knee against Regal’s temple.

He has matches – title matches, even, and he wins every one. Every opponent, he beats. He’s on fire. He’s never been better.

Wrestlemania weekend is a blur of prolonged media attention. Even though he’s not on the main stage yet, he feels like he’s closer than he’s ever been.

It’s about a month, all told, since he wins the championship, when it finally begins to wind down. Seth can sit in his hotel room on a Wednesday night and know that he doesn’t have anywhere that he has to be until tomorrow. He could catch up on sleep, or watch mindless television, or—

 _Knock-knock-knock_.

He rolls his eyes, hopping off the bed. Or entertain Dean Ambrose, he supposes. He’s the only one who ever drops by without bothering to text or call first, and, to be honest, he’s pretty much the only visitor Seth gets anyway.

“Hey,” he says when he opens the door. His greeting is cut off as Dean actually takes a _step back_ at the sight of him.

“What in god’s name did you do to your fucking hair?” he asks, elbowing Seth out of the way without further ado.

“What?” Seth asks, closing the door and shoving a hand through his hair with only a little self-consciousness. He’s done far stupider things to his hair than bleaching one side of it, and Dean doesn’t ever need to know about any of those. “I like it.”

“It’s…” Dean trails off, folding his arms across his chest and giving Seth’s head a closer look. “It’s very you,” he finally says, diplomatic for probably the first time in his life.

“That a good thing or a bad thing?” Seth asks, mirroring Dean’s stance.

“Neither. I dunno.” Dean shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Not my head.”

Seth amuses himself at the idea of Dean with his hair.

“Besides,” Dean says, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I had pink hair once. Can’t really talk, can I?”

“Did you, really?” Seth asks, raising his eyebrows and plopping back onto his bed. “There pictures of that anywhere?”

“On the internet, probably.” Dean shrugs again. “You busy tonight?”

“Probably not, for the first time in weeks,” Seth admits. “I was gonna be lazy, but could probably be persuaded otherwise. Have something in mind?”

“Eat?” Dean offers. “I want one of those sandwiches from that place near the arena. They put avocado and shit on ‘em, you’d love it.”

“Okay.” Seth’s mind has just realized that the thing which has been bouncing all around his head these past few weeks is something that came out of the mouth of the guy standing in front of him, and he’s trying his best not to let it show that he’s suddenly far more edgy than he was. “Yeah, alright. I like sandwiches.”

He likes Dean Ambrose, that’s what he likes, and it’s ridiculous, and it makes no sense, and he shouldn’t because it’s a terrible idea but he _likes_ him so much. He likes talking to him and hanging out with him, and kissing him and fucking him and he likes it when he wakes up before Dean does and he can watch him have his guard completely down for a minute or two.

He likes Dean’s laugh and Dean’s weird tendency to do the Robot while you’re trying to talk to him and the way that Dean always means what he says even if the way he’s saying it seems like he doesn’t.

He likes that Dean tells stupid jokes and he likes that Dean is still stupidly, outrageously jealous of Roman and he likes that Dean looks at him like he thinks Seth is something special. Not like promoters have, and not like scouts have; he looks at Seth sometimes like he sees something there that he still hasn’t figured out, but he’s enjoying the attempt.

Seth likes Dean. And… maybe. And he maybes Dean, too.

“Let’s go,” he says abruptly. He checks the time on his phone (4:30, late enough to call it an early dinner) and then he sets it to silent. He’s not taking calls anymore today. His schedule’s booked.

“Okay,” says Dean, giving Seth a curious look. “Guess you’re hungry.”

“Something like that,” Seth murmurs. He shoves his phone into his pocket and grabs the essentials before jerking his head toward the door. “Shall we?”

Dean was right, damn it all. The sandwiches really are excellent, and Seth likes the atmosphere of the place, too. It’s small and quiet, with a homey feel that isn’t too gimmicky or forced. His shoulders relax as he takes another bite out of his sandwich.

“Told you,” says Dean, despite Seth not saying anything. “Told you you’d love ‘em.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Seth mutters. “I’m not listening to you. I’m eating.”

“Well, I’ll talk, anyway.” Dean rolls his eyes, popping a french fry into his mouth. “You got a match this week.”

“Mm. Yeah. Kassius Ohno.” Seth tears a bit of lettuce off and rolls it into a tube before he eats it. “You? Anything with, uh, Regal?”

He doesn’t even know why he asked. He doesn’t want to know. Or he does. He does want to know because he wants to know how much time he’s got left.

“Nah,” says Dean. “Or, I guess, not really. Still not returning my calls.” He scowls. “Feels like I’m getting closer, though. To something, even if it’s not a match.”

“Something?” Seth asks. “What’s something if it isn’t a match?”

Dean always seems to shrug with his whole body. Seth usually finds it endearing. Now it’s just annoying. “Dunno. Did you know—“ he points at Seth with another fry, “—he said once that I was gonna be the one to end his career?”

“I, uh, it was implied, I guess. I don’t know that I ever heard him say it outright.” Seth frowns. “Why?”

“Cause I was thinking, this whole time I’ve thought that meant in a match, right? ‘Cause we’re wrestlers, and our career is wrestling, so it’d make sense for me to end his career by beating him in a match, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah, of course.” Seth slowly nods. “Which is why you think he won’t give you the match, because he doesn’t want his career to be over.”

Dean gesticulates wildly. “See, that’s what I _thought_ , but I’ve been wondering if maybe that’s not it. People’s careers don’t end just because they lose matches. They end because of shit like injuries or your body wearing down, things like that. So I was thinking that maybe he meant I’d end it like that. Not like I’d beat him in a match and he’d be too embarrassed to compete again. But like I’d beat him so bad that he _couldn’t_ compete again.”

He sounds excited. He sounds like putting Regal out of action permanently is something that appeals to him immensely. It’s a little scary. But it’s also a little familiar.

“Is that your plan?” he asks, loosening his grip on his sandwich. “You’re gonna, what, break his arm?”

“Or his head,” Dean confirms. “Or his leg, or his back, or his knees, or his neck, I mean, whatever it takes, right?”

“No,” Seth says, slow, his eyebrows pulling together. “Not, not right. We’re wrestlers, not hitmen. You don’t go into a match hoping to injure your opponent so badly they have to _retire_.”

Dean’s eyes meet Seth’s, and he grins, one of the ones Seth doesn’t like very much. He tips his glass of water in Seth’s direction.

“ _You_ don’t,” he allows before he takes a drink. “I don’t think you get it, man. He gets in the ring with me and I’m making sure he never fucking does it again.”

“Then I hope he never gets in the ring with you.” It just comes out of his mouth. He wonders if Dean can tell that he means it for more than one reason. “Jesus Christ, Dean.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t know what you were getting into.” Dean tilts his head at Seth, mildly annoyed. “It’s not like I’m a nice guy.”

“No,” says Seth, swiping his thumb underneath his lip to catch a smudge of avocado. “No, you’re really not.”

There’s silence for a moment, as Seth takes another bite of his sandwich, chewing it as slowly as possible, and Dean spins the ketchup bottle in the metal contraption holding it.

“So, what,” Dean says suddenly, his tone flat. “All of a sudden you can’t handle that?”

“I never said I couldn’t handle it,” Seth replies. He takes another deliberate bite of his sandwich, counts to ten before he swallows. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Well, somebody’s got to, since you’re not doing it,” says Dean, taking all of the sugar packets from their container and dropping them onto the table in a pile. One by one, he begins replacing them. “Since when do you give a shit what I do to Regal?”

“I don’t.” Seth says it as firmly as possible. “I don’t. I don’t give a shit. Do whatever you want; that’s what you always do, and it works for you.”

“Could work for you, too,” Dean mutters. He’s put most of the sugar packets back, but one of them, he’s spilled onto the table and he’s making spirals in it with his index finger. “If you’d stop being so… _good_ all the time.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t know what _you_ were getting into.” Seth tries to keep from sounding too accusatory, but he doesn’t think it works.

Another moment of silence. Seth chews. Dean frowns.

Then he laughs, quiet and sardonic, but laughter all the same.

“Touché,” he murmurs, flicking some of the sugar at Seth. “How about you don’t give me shit for being a bad guy and I don’t give you shit for being, like, a mother’s wet dream?”

Seth rolls his eyes. “Alright,” he says. “Forget it. Kill the guy for all I care.”

“Princess,” Dean mutters, but it has that hint of warmth to it, just the right hint of genuine affection to make Seth feel a little less on edge. “Didn’t know it bothered you.”

“We’re not talking about it anymore.” Seth unwinds the little wrapper from the neat rolled silverware that he isn’t using. Without his sandwich, his hands feel fidgety. “But if we were, I’d say that it doesn’t bother me.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “If we were, I’d say that it sure sounds like it bothers you.”

“It doesn’t.” Seth tears the wrapper into smaller and smaller pieces. “In this hypothetical conversation that we aren’t having.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Dean rolls his eyes. “Will you just tell me what’s got your panties in a wad so I can apologize or whatever and we can have makeup sex? You’re – this is killing me.”

“You? Apologize?” Seth laughs, and it’s actually more amused than he was planning for it to be. “Right, okay.”

“Killing me,” Dean stresses. His hands are braced on the edge of the table, but as Seth watches, they slide in a slow collapse toward Seth until Dean’s chin is nearly balanced on his empty plate. “What did I do? I take it back. Or I totally don’t take it back. Whichever makes you not… like this.”

“I’m not like anything.” Seth sighs. “Fine. You know what? Fine. I don’t want you to have the match with William Regal.”

There. Now it’s out there. It’s out there for the world and, more importantly, Dean, to hear and know.

Dean doesn’t say anything, at first. He just leans back in his seat, his elbows resting on the table, and looks at Seth with a confused frown.

“You don’t want me to have the match with William Regal,” he repeats. “I thought you said you knew I could beat him.” 

Dean has a way of speaking that’s accusatory without being particularly aggressive. His tone is very cool now.

“I do know you can beat him. It’s not that.” Seth really wishes he had another tiny wrapper to rip into tinier pieces. 

“Well what is it, then?” Dean says. “You don’t think I can beat him, do you? You don’t think I can do it!” His voice is rising, and Seth hisses a shush before the other tables start to stare.

“I fucking said it wasn’t that, okay?” he says once Dean has, sulkily, quieted down again. “It’s…”

He hesitates.

“It’s what?” Maybe Seth’s imagining Dean softening a little at the edges.

“… Last time he almost broke your arm.” He can’t do it. He can’t fucking do it, he just can’t make himself say it. Six goddamn words, _I don’t want this to end_ , and he just can’t say them. “Who knows what he’s willing to do this time to prove himself?”

Dean’s whole face relaxes. He’s even smiling a little. “You worried about me?”

Teasing. Seth can handle teasing. 

“No,” he says quickly. Too quickly, and deliberately so. “I’m not.”

“You’re worried about me,” Dean insists, propping his chin on his fists. “You worried I’m gonna get hurt? You wanna be my knight in shining armor? Save me from the big bad wolf?”

“ _God_ , no.” Seth pushes his plate away from himself. Their waiter pops by to discreetly slide the check onto their table and then makes himself scarce. Seth likes that in a waiter.

“Oh, that’s right, you’re the princess here,” says Dean, grinning at him. “Does that make me Prince Charming?”

“No,” says Seth wryly. He pulls out his wallet once he takes a look at the bill. “It just makes you an asshole.”

Dean takes a moment to think about that. “A charming asshole?” he offers.

“A very charming asshole.” Seth shakes his head, sliding out of his seat. He’s walking toward the door by the time Dean gets with the program, catching Seth’s hand and tugging as they step out into the sun.

“Did you just pay for me?” he asks, the bewildered look on his face highly enjoyable.

“I did,” Seth confirms. He’s hoping the smile he’s trying to hold back isn’t obvious. He’s _angry_ , damn it. Why does it have to be so fun to confuse Dean? “Problem?”

“No.” Dean is still looking at him like he’s trying to work out what’s going on. “Were we – was that – I want my makeup sex now,” he demands.

“You have to have a fight to make up,” Seth says thoughtfully.

Dean hums, agreeable enough. “We could have regular sex?” he amends.

Seth pretends to consider it. “Sounds good.” 

He swears Dean actually fist-pumps. He’s in maybe with an idiot.

And someday, maybe he’ll be able to say he’s in something else with him. But for now, maybe will have to be enough.

\--

Seth’s life doesn’t slow down. He’s still got matches almost every week, and if he doesn’t have a match, he has a promo, and if he doesn’t have a match or a promo, he’s still expected backstage just in case they want him to fill a slot. He enjoys it, for the most part. He’s always been somebody who liked being busy; it just so happens that lately, he’s been busier than he’s been in a long time.

It doesn’t leave him a lot of time for other things, which is good in some ways and not good in others. It’s good because it means he doesn’t have the time to think on revelations he may or may not have had, and it’s good because he knows it’ll look good to the higher-ups if he’s accepting all this new work without complaining.

But he doesn’t get to see Dean very much. And he’s angry that he’s upset about that, but he is.

Dean’s hardly on the show, and Seth’s always on the show, so their paths don’t even cross at work very often. When Dean _is_ there, he’s badgering Regal, or putting people in Regal’s finishing move, or staring longingly at Regal from afar. Doesn’t leave much time for hanging out in Seth’s locker room, though he’s usually there when Seth arrives and there by the time he’s ready to leave.

Otherwise, they make do with clandestine meetings in the dead of night, and it’s enough because it has to be. Until it’s not.

Until Seth’s in his locker room and Dean has a microphone and Seth has a match later and Dean doesn’t. Until Dean’s on the microphone talking about how Regal still won’t face him, and everybody’s afraid to face him but especially Regal. Until Seth’s making his way through the halls without a clue as to what he plans on doing when he gets out there. Until Dean’s staring over at the announce table and Seth’s out there next to him and Dean doesn’t notice him because he’s too busy noticing William Regal.

Until Seth is so exhausted and he’s so tired and he’s sick of playing second fiddle to somebody Dean’s not even actually fucking.

He sets his hand on Dean’s arm and waits until he turns around in the middle of his sentence, saying _it’s like I don’t exist_. He looks like he’s in disbelief, like he can’t believe Seth has the gall to be out here, interrupting him making eyes at a 45 year old.

Seth opens his mouth without a clue of what he’s going to say. “What the _hell_ are you talking about?”

Dean doesn’t say anything. He’s staring at Seth, his mouth hanging open a little.

“A year ago when you came into this place, you had a fire in your eyes. You knew what you wanted.” Seth can’t look anywhere but at Dean, where he can see sparks of something in Dean’s eyes, whether it’s anger or something else. His heart is pounding, and his mouth is dry. In some ways he’s forgotten the crowd entirely. “You wanted to beat me, so you could be the best.”

Seth’s only just remembered that he has the title over his shoulder. His palms are sweaty, against the belt and the microphone, and Dean still hasn’t said a word. He’s twisting his own microphone between his fingers, and he’s looking straight at Seth, but he’s not saying anything.

“Something happened to you. Something changed in you; now you’re just _crazy_ , now you’re just _obsessed_ —“ all those buzzwords, all the words Dean hates, all the words Seth knows Dean doesn’t like when Seth’s using them against him, “—with William Regal.”

Seth hopes that Dean can hear the real, honest hatred in his voice. He doesn’t even hate Regal, not really. He just hates that it’s Regal that turns Dean into this person, because it reminds Seth all too much of before, of Dean trying to get into his head by getting into his pants, of Dean using mind games to get what he wants instead of asking.

It reminds Seth of when Dean was Ambrose. And he hates that more than anything.

“Well, I’ve got a piece of advice for you.” Seth’s not sure if Dean’s expression has moved this whole time. “Get your eyes back on the prize. And _grow a set_.”

The _ooh_ s from the crowd are a startling reminder that he and Dean are having this conversation (does it count as a conversation if he’s the only one talking?) in front of a live studio audience, and in front of anybody watching this at home. Oh, well. At least he’s said it. At least Dean knows how he’s feeling now.

Honestly, even if this leads into a title match, him against Dean, at least it’d be something. At least he and Dean would be wrestling each other, and Seth will demand his full attention. 

It’ll be part of Dean that Seth has, and William Regal doesn’t. And that’ll be better than what they’ve got now.

He’s practically buzzing, waiting for Dean to respond, waiting for Dean to say _anything_ , to show any sign that he’s heard what Seth’s saying, and more importantly, that he’s read between the lines enough to hear what Seth’s not saying.

Dean stares at him a moment longer, his head tilted, and his mouth tightens at the edges, lips pursing. He looks Seth up and down, then nods, just a little, a frantic movement.

He mutters what Seth just said under his breath, incredulous, _grow a set_? and Seth’s temper flares just enough that he repeats, away from the microphone, “Yeah, grow a set, _kid_.”

Dean’s eyes widen a little, then narrow. “Mm,” he hums, watching Seth even as he walks away. “Mhmm.”

Seth has no idea what the fuck _mhmm_ means, but he knows that there’s a chance he’s just completely ruined months and months of building this—relationship. There’s a chance that they’ve just reverted back to January, when they didn’t speak, didn’t fuck, hardly even looked at each other.

But he’s got to believe it’s worth it. He’s got to believe that Dean will _understand_.

And if he doesn’t, well. Seth’s got a match in like ten minutes. He can think it to death after that.

The match against Richie is pretty good. Seth already knew he and Richie could put on a good show; they’ve got pretty similar styles and they know each other well enough that it’s fluid, and Seth really doesn’t have to think too much, just react and attack. It’s nice. And he gets the win, which is nicer.

He’ll never get tired of hearing himself announced as _still Florida Heavyweight Champion_. Even winded and having a little trouble staying on his feet, it sounds good.

The sound of pounding on the metal steps is enough for him to keep his guard up, though, and his eyes zero in on where Dean – of course it’s Dean, _of course_ – has his title, Seth’s title in his hands, carrying it like it belongs to him. Seth’s shoulders are hunched, and he’s ready to fight if he has to. He’s just really hoping he doesn’t have to.

And then Dean offers him the belt in a jerky shove, pushing it into Seth’s arms. He looks at him, really looks at him, and then holds up two fingers.

“Two weeks,” he says. The crowd has hushed in an attempt to hear him, so it’s easy for Seth to make out what he’s saying. “Two weeks.”

“Finally grew a set, huh?” Seth asks. He’s still panting a little, out of breath. “You and me one more time?”

Someone in the audience shouts for Seth to hit him with the belt. The possibility hasn’t left Seth’s mind. Instead, though, he lifts it above his head, still looking at Dean. “You want some of this?” he asks.

There’s amusement on Dean’s face now, as Seth’s music starts playing, as the crowd starts cheering again, and Seth has to strain to hear him. “Two weeks. I’m not gonna hold back, princess.”

“Neither am I.” Seth is still holding his title aloft. It’s _his_ title, and it’s gonna stay that way. “You’re not taking this away from me. You just make sure you bring your best game. No distractions.” He flicks his eyes over Dean’s shoulder toward the announce table to make sure Dean knows what he’s talking about.

The corner of Dean’s mouth turns up. “No distractions,” he says agreeably. “’sides, you know you’re the only one who could ever really distract me.”

Seth snorts. “Two weeks,” he says, finally dropping his arm and stepping back, ducking through the ropes. He keeps his eyes on Dean in the ring, walking backwards until he’s through the curtain. There are back pats aplenty, as he makes his way back to his locker room.

Once he gets there, he drops his title on top of his bag, sits heavily in a chair, and waits. Sure enough, a few minutes later, the doorknob turns and Dean waltzes through it. Seth’s missed the way he’s allergic to knocking.

“Hey,” he says, after Dean doesn’t speak, just leans against the door to close it.

Dean narrows his eyes and takes the three steps to drop into the seat across from Seth. He leans forward enough to plant his elbows on his knees. “Hey,” he says, his voice low and quiet. “We got a problem?”

“Nope,” Seth says. “No problem here. You got a problem?”

“Yeah,” replies Dean, before Seth’s question’s even asked. “What the hell was that?”

Seth shrugs. “Just trying to get your attention. Hard to do these days.”

There are little things, things you’d have to be looking for to see, in the way that Dean’s sitting, talking, looking at Seth. He’s pissed. Seth knows he’s pissed. He doesn’t care very much, but he knows.

“Since when do you gotta be in front of the whole goddamn world to talk to me?” Dean asks. “You have a problem, hey, I’m right here.” He spreads his hands. “You wanna talk about it, let’s fucking talk about it.”

“I don’t have a problem.” Seth does his best to keep his shoulders relaxed. “In fact, from what I can see, you’re the one with a problem here.”

“Right, right.” Dean licks his lips. “My _obsession_ with William Regal. Except we already had this conversation and you said it wasn’t a big deal. That it didn’t _bother you_. What the fuck’s changed?”

“I told you I didn’t want you to have the damn match,” Seth says. His voice is rising. That’s no good. He’s trying to stay calm. What is it about Dean that brings out the shit in him he’d rather stay dormant?

“Well now we get to have a different match.” Dean smiles at him. There’s no humor in it. “That what you wanted? Hell, if you wanted me to take that title from you, all you had to do was ask.”

“If you don’t get distracted by the commentary booth again,” Seth says derisively. That earns him a curious look, the wheels clearly turning in Dean’s head.

“It keeps coming back to that for you,” he says slowly. “What is it about Regal that makes you so angry, huh? Why do you care so much?”

“You’re better than this,” says Seth. “You’re better than trying for six months to get some guy to give you another match. He beat you once. _Get over it_.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Dean says. “You know I can beat him. You know I have to beat him.”

“Yeah.” Seth makes a sound. It’d be a lie to call it a laugh. “Yeah, I guess I do know you have to beat him.”

“So why don’t you want him to give me the match? I can tell that’s what it is,” he adds. “That’s what’s been bothering you, this whole time, but you keep talking around it. You never tell me _why_. Why does it matter so much? It has nothing to do with you.”

 _Except it has everything to do with me._ Seth stares at Dean, waiting expectantly for his reply. _Because I told you we’re over if you have this match. Because I don’t want us to be over. Because I don’t want this to end. Because I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you._

“You’re right,” he says, looking away. He looks at his title instead, gleaming gold on the seat beside him. “You’re right. It has nothing to do with me.”

His chest hurts, his head hurts, and he wants to go back to his hotel room and stare at the ceiling for a few hours.

“Right, it doesn’t.” Dean’s still looking at him. Seth can feel his eyes. “That all? That’s all you’ve got to say?”

“That’s all I’ve got to say,” Seth replies firmly. He turns to get clothes out of his bag, tucking his title into it and standing up. “I’m gonna shower.”

“Okay,” Dean says after a moment. He leans back in his seat and folds his arms across his chest. “I think I’ll just stay here. Long as that’s okay with you.”

“You can do what you want, Dean,” mutters Seth. “It’s not like I could stop you.”

He thinks Dean’s about to say something else, but Seth leaves the room before he can. He doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to hear any of it.

He showers slowly, maybe in the hope that Dean will get bored and leave before he’s done, but when he gets out, slightly damp and slightly calmer, Dean’s still in the main locker room waiting for him.

“Ready to go?” Dean asks, standing. He must’ve left at some point, to get his bag, because it’s at his feet, packed and ready. Actually the few things that had been strewn around the locker room from Seth’s bag seem to be gone, too, and when Seth unzips it to put his ring gear in it, they’re inside it. He looks up at Dean, confused.

“Did you… pack my bag for me?” he asks.

Dean shrugs a shoulder, obviously jittery. “Maybe. Got bored.”

“Okay,” Seth mumbles, zipping it back up and swinging it over his shoulder. “Weirdo.”

They’re in the car (somehow, Seth hadn’t even questioned that he’s driving Dean back, still, even now) before either of them says anything else.

Abruptly, Dean says, “Considering I’m planning on taking that title from you, I probably still shouldn’t want to spend, like, literally all my fucking time with you, should I?”

“You’re Dean Ambrose.” Seth turns the car on. “Since when have you ever been concerned with what you should or shouldn’t do?”

“Since it makes you all mad and shit,” Dean mumbles. He’s looking out the window, frowning. “Are we – do you want me to, like, do you want me to back off? I dunno. We weren’t…” He waves a hand to indicate the both of them. “We weren’t _this_ last time we had a match.”

“Just like any other match. Give me your best, I’ll give you my best. We can keep it all in the ring.” Seth shrugs. “Nothing’s changed.”

That feels like a lie, even though for Dean, it won’t be. Nothing’s changed for him. He hasn’t had any realizations, hasn’t had any accidental mental confessions of love. For Dean, this is just the same thing it’s always been.

Seth wishes it could be that for him, too.

\--

He tries not to think about it. As long as Seth’s not thinking about it, nothing’s changed, and he thinks about everything but his match against Dean as much as he can for as long as he can. They go about their lives as usual, hanging out in each other’s hotel rooms, flirting and fucking and forgetting for a few hours that this is all smoke and mirrors. They’re going to face each other sooner rather than later and even if they say, here and now, that it won’t change anything, there’s hardly any way for it not to.

Either Dean’s going to take his title (unlikely, Seth knows; even if Dean’s beaten him, he’d had a bad arm and nothing to lose. Now he’s healthy and he has his title, and hell if he’s letting it go) or he’s going to beat Dean, again, and Seth doesn’t know how Dean’s going to handle that. The last time Seth pinned him, they were nothing. Now, it’s different.

But he tries not to think about it, about any of it. He tries to let it just be the two of them, and he can tell that Dean’s trying the same, but for two weeks the match looms in front of them, the elephant in the room.

His whole life has been hectic, passing at the speed of sound since he won this title, and the next two weeks are no different even though he’s trying to make it slow down. He isn’t afraid to face Dean, ever, but part of him doesn’t want this to happen for reasons that have nothing to do with his title being on the line.

Everything is actually even more hard to keep track of then usual, because they’re changing up the company, naming the developmental territory something else and changing the set, the titles, the packaging, everything. It’s all a little up in the air, but as it is, the rumor’s that they’ll only be wrestling as FCW competitors for another month at the most.

The day of his match with Dean, Seth’s surprised when there’s a knock on his door as he’s getting ready to leave for the arena. When he opens it, he’s not sure he should be surprised that Dean’s standing there, his own bag in hand, his stance forcibly casual.

“Hey.” Dean waves a hand, then shoves the same hand through his hair. “I, uh, figured we’re going to the same place. Might as well save gas, right?”

Seth leans against his doorway. His keys are even already in his hand. All he has to do is close the door behind him. “You think that’s a good idea?” he asks.

“Oh, fuck no,” Dean says, shrugging his shoulder. “But if I only ever did things I should do, I’d never get to do anything fun. Yes or no?”

Seth takes about half a second to decide. “Yes,” he says, shutting the door and palming his keys. “Long as this isn’t a ploy to distract me before the match.”

“Would I do that?” Dean asks, holding his hand to his heart, eyes gone deliberately wide, though Seth doesn’t think anybody could mistake anything about Dean for innocent.

“Without a doubt.” It should be strange, how Dean can still make him smile, even when they’re going to be wrestling each other in about an hour or so. 

“I’m hurt by your lack of faith in me,” Dean replies, though his tone isn’t hurt in the slightest as he climbs into Seth’s passenger seat. “I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

“You don’t know the meaning of the word.” Seth backs out of his parking space. Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, he chances a glance over at Dean. “How’s your arm?”

He knows Dean tweaked it a few days ago the same way he knows most things about Dean: he was there when it happened. Because even though they have a match against each other, they’ve still been training together.

In his peripheral vision, he sees Dean’s lips press together. “It’s fine,” he says, and if Seth didn’t know better, he wouldn’t suspect any differently. But he does know better, because he knows Dean. “All better, doesn’t hurt a bit.”

“Good.” Seth falls silent after that, and Dean doesn’t say anything else the rest of the way to the arena.

When he pulls into the parking lot, and turns off the car, Dean sets a hand on his arm before he can even get his seatbelt off.

“What?” Seth asks, turning to look at him.

Dean kisses him, hands pressed to either side of Seth’s jaw, warm skin and rough lips like he always is. It’s different, and the same, and Seth’s hand fists in the worn edge of Dean’s jacket like a vice.

“This doesn’t change anything, okay?” Dean says. He doesn’t let go of Seth, and his lips are still so close they brush Seth’s with every word. “This doesn’t change a fucking thing.”

“You can’t promise that,” Seth says, because something about Dean makes him too honest when he should just lie.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Dean replies and it’s firm, no room for disagreement. “It’s you and it’s me. And it’s gonna stay that way.”

Seth almost says it. He almost tells him. He comes closer than he ever has before, his mouth open, the words on his lips, _I love you_ burning hot on the tip of his tongue.

“Okay,” he says instead. “You and me. Nothing changes.”

Dean searches his eyes for a moment longer, then nods, kissing Seth quickly one more time before he leans back.

“May the best man win,” Seth says, his hand on the door handle. 

Dean kind of smirks at him sideways. “Don’t worry,” he says, hoisting his bag into his lap and then opening his own door. “I plan on it.”

“Fighting words, Ambrose.” It’s important, that switch. The moment they step in between those ropes, they’re not _this_ anymore. They’re opponents, and it’s better to start sooner rather than later.

It’s something he knows Dean will understand, and he’s proved right when Dean gives him a miniscule nod, pushing the car door closed behind him. “Do your worst, Rollins,” he replies.

Without discussing it, Seth enters the arena first, grateful when nobody stops him on his way to his locker room. Dean won’t be there tonight, and Seth isn’t sure he’ll be there at the end of the show, either. They’re operating under different rules, tonight, and the pieces of the game are in play.

They have the last half of the show, that’s what Seth’s told. They set aside the last half hour for them to work with, and it had better be enough. No draws. No double-forfeits. There’s going to be one winner and one loser. Seth’s determined to be on the winning side.

He runs through his usual preparations, keeping his mind clear and focused. His title’s ready, set gleaming golden on a chair and Seth keeps watch over it like a parent would a child. He’s defended it before, against people who were completely capable, excellent wrestlers, and he’s confident that he can beat Ambrose and retain it tonight.

But that confidence isn’t absolute, and part of Seth wonders if all of this is forever inevitable, if they’re destined to just keep fighting over and over again until one of them is crowned the ultimate victor.

He wouldn’t mind wrestling Dean every night until forever. He just wishes it could be for fun instead of for a title.

Ambrose. He’s not Dean now, he’s Ambrose, and he will be Ambrose until the bell rings for the second time.

As the champion, he’s announced second, so he has a little leeway with his timing as he gets ready to go to the ring, and he uses every bit of it. If at all possible, he’d like to get behind the curtain when Dean’s already through it. He doesn’t want to see him until they’re in the ring, where he knows he can get things done, where he knows he won’t have any issues doing what he has to do.

He makes the timing right after all, only seeing the back of Ambrose’s head as he disappears out through the curtain, and Seth takes a deep breath before he locks himself into the right mindset, bouncing on his heels, ready to power out there and give his best like he does every night he wrestles.

Seth can feel Ambrose’s eyes on him the whole time he’s getting to the ring, but he doesn’t let it distract him. He has a routine and he sticks to it, until he’s in the ring, across from Ambrose, and he can see a vein ticking in Ambrose’s jaw. Good, that’s good. They’re both ready.

During the entirety of his introduction, Ambrose barely moves a muscle. He just watches Seth. It’s been a long time since they’ve been opponents, and Seth had forgotten, almost, how Ambrose can get into your head without moving a muscle.

The first movement Ambrose makes, the first noticeable change in his demeanor, comes when the announcer moves on to Seth. He’s barely through the words _From Davenport, Iowa_ when Ambrose starts smiling, watching Seth, his lips pulling into something hardly recognizable. It’d work as an intimidation if Seth was intimidated. As it is, he just looks back at Ambrose, and then at his title, lifting it above his head as his introduction finishes.

They take their time as the bell rings, eying each other, each taking the other in. Seth can feel Ambrose’s eyes scanning him and he doesn’t know if it’s another try at intimidation or if he’s trying to figure out what Seth’s first move is going to be. Seth’s doing the same, keeping an eye on Ambrose’s feet, to try and figure out where he’s moving.

Ambrose stays near the ropes at first, and it becomes clear why when they lock up and Ambrose almost immediately drags him against the ropes, an attempt to get him into the corner before Seth breaks the hold. From there, it’s a sequence of mat wrestling. It reminds Seth inappropriately of the first time they’d gone to the gym together, the mock match they’d had. Headlocks and armdrags and submissions aplenty, it’s not a style either of them excel at, and maybe that’s why Ambrose wants it this way. Keeping Seth grounded is a good way to keep him from picking up the pace, even if it also keeps Ambrose from turning it into a fistfight.

Seth tries a few times to change that, to quicken the pace, to get something going, but Ambrose keeps countering, lacing his fingers with Seth’s and shoving his shoulders to the mat, and when Seth pops up into a bridge, simply forcing his shoulders back down again. He’s gripping so tightly that it’s hard to twist out of without stretching his shoulders past their comfort level.

Just when Seth thinks he’s managed a little breathing room, with a monkey flip, Ambrose gets him back into a side headlock. It’s infuriating, really, because Ambrose seems to pick grounding submissions that keep him pressed bodily against Seth and even though he knows it’s not purposeful (most likely) it’s still a rush of annoyance every time.

Dean’s not wrestling like _Dean_. Seth knows that Dean’s a good technical wrestler, and he can bust out a submission with the best of them, but this isn’t how Dean wrestles, side headlocks and front facelocks and submission after submission.

It’s how somebody else wrestles. But it’s not Dean.

Two can play at that. Seth twists up and over and gets Dean into a headscissors, but Dean rolls out, and then back into the side headlock. Around and around they go.

Gradually, it becomes clear to Seth, as he’s caught in an armbar, that Dean is working the left arm. He’s focusing his attack on Seth’s left arm, like he’s getting him ready for the goddamn Regal Stretch, and it’s too much, it’s all too much to be coincidence.

“Stop wrestling me like fucking William Regal,” he hisses, his mouth pressed against the mat, his words only loud enough for Ambrose and maybe the referee to hear. But it’s enough. Ambrose finally starts wrestling more like himself. They go back and forth with chops and punches and hits and kicks, and then, and then, and _then_ —

Seth starts working the left arm.

He’s vicious about it. As vicious as he can be, a hand at Ambrose’s jaw to shove his head away while he yanks his arm back with the other hand, hooking his finger into Ambrose’s mouth to yank that much more. Ambrose tries biting him, and that doesn’t work, so he just socks Seth in the jaw so hard that Seth’s vision whites out for a second.

Ambrose is angry now, and it’s changed the whole atmosphere in the ring. He grabs Seth’s hair and uses it to throw him to the ground, flips him over onto his stomach and crosses his legs at the ankle and Seth thinks _oh fuck no_ , reaches out and grabs the bottom rope.

They go back and forth a few more times, trading shots to each other’s left arms, knowing full well what both of them are trying to do. It builds and builds and then Ambrose superplexes him, only when they land, Seth hears a soft _pop_ and then it sounds like Ambrose bites off his own tongue. Something just happened that wasn’t supposed to happen, but Seth has no idea what it was until he’s trying to claw his way back to his feet and spies Ambrose slamming his shoulder into the ring apron in an attempt to pop it back into place.

There’s a doctor out there but they haven’t stopped the match, and Ambrose is in just the right position, so Seth doesn’t even think about it, just bounces off the far rope and vaults out of the ring on top of him.

A flurry of action back and forth, impact and aerial from Seth, impact and submission from Ambrose, and they’re so evenly matched at some points that it’s ridiculous.

Finally, Seth slips, one error and Ambrose has that knee trembler colliding with his head. Seth doesn’t remember kicking out. He doesn’t remember kicking out at all, but he does, must, because the match hasn’t ended.

The match hasn’t ended and now Seth’s _pissed_. He’s so sick of Ambrose using Regal’s moves, so sick of Ambrose using Regal’s mindset, so sick of Ambrose using Regal’s anything.

He scratches and claws like he never has before, and finally, he manages to get Ambrose flipped onto his stomach. He takes a second to think about whether or not he really wants to do this (it only takes a second, and maybe not even that) before he crosses Ambrose’s ankles over one another and pulls his arm back. It’s unfamiliar, and uncomfortable, and Ambrose fights him the whole way, but he does it.

He puts Ambrose in the Regal Stretch. It feels amazing.

“You fucking asshole,” Ambrose mutters against the mat. Seth hopes the microphones didn’t pick it up. And then Ambrose bites him, because of course he does, and the match goes on, except Ambrose is off his game now and it doesn’t take much more to take advantage of that. One Blackout later, Seth retains his title.

He’s expecting it to feel less like a victory, for some reason. He’s expecting to feel more conflicted than he does, more like a double-edged sword, but it feels just as good at it always does, whether it should or not. He won, and more than that, he thinks he proved a point.

Maybe Dean won’t see it that way – Seth slides out under the bottom rope, and he’s allowed to think of him as Dean again – but Seth said what he wanted to say during that match. If Dean has a problem with it, well, he knows where to find him.

And Seth might be thinking too much of himself, too far in advance, because he’s surprised when he’s gotten back to his locker room and loitered for a few minutes, and Dean’s not barreling through his door. Still, he did knock the guy’s head into the mat pretty hard, so he’s probably still scraping himself off it. He starts his shower without thinking too much of it.

It’s when he’s finished his shower, taking his time and everything, and he’s back out in his locker room and Dean’s still not there that he starts to think something might be weird. He’s being dramatic, almost definitely, but his stomach swoops with unease and Seth usually trusts his gut.

He’s not going to go looking for Dean or anything; if he wants to sulk, he’s got the right to. Seth won’t bother him. But if he’s, like, if he seriously fucked up his shoulder or something, Seth wants to know. He could be in with the trainers, getting checked on, or he could be stubbornly holed up in his own locker room refusing to get medical attention.

Seth’s half a minute from actually checking to see if Dean’s in the medical area when the door handle jiggles and Dean’s pushing it open by leaning on it. While he’s holding his arm kind of gingerly and he’s curled around it in a way that screams that he’s protecting it, it doesn’t look like he’s got any tape on it. Which could mean he doesn’t need it, or it could mean he hasn’t bothered to get it looked at. You can never be sure with Dean.

“Hey, stranger,” Seth says cautiously. The look on Dean’s face is strange, a mix of confusion, triumph, and frustration. He finds out very quickly why.

“I got the match,” Dean says without preamble. “The match with Regal, he said he’d fight me. Summer just told me. I got the match.”

Seth’s mouth goes dry. The remaining sense of pride from the win evaporates, and all he’s left with is an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Oh, uh. Oh.” He swallows hard, his throat catching on the dryness of it. “When, when are you gonna have it?”

Dean’s inside now, the door closed behind him. “She’s making the announcement next week, but it’s going to be two weeks after that. No gimmicks or anything, just a straight wrestling match, me and him.”

“Three weeks,” Seth says. He lowers himself back into his seat, because his legs are a little shaky and he’d feel stupid (stupid, stupid, so stupid) if they gave out. “Okay. So you’ve got three weeks to prepare.”

“I guess, I mean, I’ve kind of been preparing for the last eight months.” Dean had been smiling, just a little, to himself, but now his brows are pulling together.

“You know, we said,” Seth says. “D’you remember what we said, Dean? When we started this, whatever, this, being whatever we are?”

Dean squints at him. An obvious no, made more clear when he says, “That… I was gonna be the best fuck of your life? ‘Cause that one was true.”

“No.” Seth laughs but it’s more like a cough. “About distractions. About how when you’re wrestling someone who’s great in the ring, you can’t get distracted by other things. You can’t get distracted by anything, or anyone.”

“No.” But Dean isn’t saying he doesn’t remember; the dawning realization on his face is more upset than it is confused. “No, come on, that was forever ago.”

“We said, Dean,” Seth replies. “No distractions if you’re wrestling William Regal. I’m not gonna be something you have to get rid of.”

“But you’re not, you’re not that.” Dean sits, too, across from Seth but leaning toward him. “That was before we were—that was before anything. It’s different now, it’s more now.”

Seth’s heart skips a beat like they’re in a romantic comedy only this isn’t romance and nobody’s laughing. “Okay, so it’s more now. Meaning I’m more of a distraction.”

“No – no.” Dean shakes his head. “No, I’m not gonna let you do this. You’re not doing this, it’s stupid. You’re not a distraction, you’re just, you’re just you. I can beat Regal. I know everything about him, I can beat him.”

“I know you can beat him. You’re going to beat him.” Seth takes a deep breath and lets it out. “You’re going to beat him with nothing there to distract you.”

“Stop saying that, stop saying that, you keep saying that.” Dean’s voice has taken on a half-singsong quality. “You’re not doing this. Stop talking like you’re going to do this. I changed my mind, no deal, fucking distract me. I don’t care. You’re not doing this.”

“We agreed. I’m not going to put myself through that again, Dean. I’m not going to risk it. I _can’t_ risk it.” He shakes his head and opens his mouth, then closes it. Fuck it, though. Fuck it, he’ll say it, because it’s the truth. “It—you— _it_ means too much to me, okay?”

And that’s what it’s really about. He could handle being a distraction, maybe, he could handle being the reason Dean’s off his game, but he can’t handle being shuffled aside, he won’t handle having confirmation that he really does feel more strongly for Dean than Dean does about him.

 _You love me and you know it_. Yeah. Yeah, he does.

Dean shuffles his chair forward, and Seth leans back to maintain the same amount of distance. Dean’s still cradling his arm, and his face is pale, from pain or something else.

“I’ll,” he starts, but his voice gives out. He clears his throat and starts again. “I’ll drop the match.”

Seth nearly laughs in his face.

“No, you won’t,” he says. There’s not a trace of doubt in his voice or his head, for that matter. “You’ve been waiting to beat Regal senseless for a year. You’re not dropping the match.”

“Fuck you,” Dean shoots back at him. “You think that matters? I’ll tell him to his face I’m too good for him, the washed up old has-been. It doesn’t matter. Okay?” He leans closer again and Seth can’t lean back any more. Dean’s eyes are trained on his like he’s trying to tell him something through telepathy alone. “Do you get it? It doesn’t _matter_.”

“More than a fucking year and suddenly it doesn’t matter?” Seth plants his foot at the edge of Dean’s chair and shoves. The chair nearly tips over, but most importantly, it gets Dean far enough away from him that he can breathe easier. “Don’t give me that bullshit. It matters. It matters to you and whether you want to admit it to yourself or not, you _need_ this match.”

“Not as – not as much as I fucking – I need – _fuck_!” Dean exclaims, kicking out wildly and ignoring the resulting thwack of a water bottle hitting the wall. “Fuck, just, _fuck_!”

He clenches his fists and rubs them against his eyes, and Seth lets him, giving him the minute to get himself back together. To be honest, he could use it, too. His heart’s still beating faster than usual.

“I’m not going to be the reason you don’t win this match,” Seth says quietly, once Dean’s stopped breathing so harshly. “What the fuck makes you think I want to be the reason you don’t have it at all?”

“Don’t,” Dean says. It’s muffled because, as Seth finds out when Dean looks up at him, Dean’s biting on the side of one of his fingers. “Don’t do this. I’ll do, I don’t know, whatever. I’ll win the match. I know I can beat him.”

“You don’t need me to do it.” Seth’s hands tighten into fists on his thighs, and then relax again. 

“No,” Dean admits, rolling his shoulders. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you.”

Want. Seth gets stuck on that word, because it’s so close to and yet so far from what he needs to hear, what he’s been dying to hear since he realized what it’s called when you figure out you kind of want to hang out with somebody for the rest of your life.

Dean wants. Seth wants, too, but what he wants is more than want, and Dean just can’t give that to him.

“We can’t always get what we want,” he says, shoving his towel into the bag next to his chair and zipping it. The rough sound is loud in the otherwise silent room. 

“Don’t.” Dean shakes his head at him, wild-eyed, his fingers digging into his thighs so hard they’ve gone white. “Seth. Don’t.”

“It’s over, Dean.” God, it sounds final, so final like that, but Seth just can’t do this anymore. He can’t go on pretending that everything’s okay and Dean feels the same way, and he can’t pretend that it’s enough for him anymore. It’s not enough and maybe it never was. “It’s over.”

When he stands, Dean remains sitting. When he leaves the locker room, Dean doesn’t try to stop him, doesn’t say a word. Seth drives home alone for the first time in months. 

He eats a late dinner alone and gets into bed alone and falls asleep alone.

He doesn’t miss someone in the passenger seat calling him an idiot every three seconds, and he doesn’t miss someone sitting across from him at his tiny table slurping noodles like an eight year old, and he doesn’t miss the solid press of a warm body against his back or the arm thrown over his waist or the leg tucked between his.

He doesn’t miss Dean. And if he did, there’s nobody around to call him a liar.

\--

Seth doesn’t want to watch the match.

Oh, it’ll be good. With Dean, Ambrose, whatever, on his best game, _distractionless_ , it could hardly be anything else. Above all else, Seth _is_ a wrestling fan. At heart, he thinks you have to be to be in this business.

There are guys who see it as a job and nothing else. They come into work and they wrestle. But Seth _breathes_ wrestling, feels it in every step he takes. More than anything, Seth likes wrestling. He likes to see a good match. Regal vs. Ambrose II is going to be, no doubt, a good match.

Seth doesn’t want to watch it.

He finds himself alone in his locker room anyway, the monitor on, the volume up. He’ll call it a sense of obligation or a simple desire to watch the last episode of this brand he’s been a part of for so long before they repackage it, but he knows why he’s really watching.

Seth hasn’t had contact with Dean in the fast few weeks. It might not have had to be that way but for Seth’s own sanity, he made sure that he didn’t run into Dean at the arena, didn’t run into him at the hotel. If he’s sticking to his guns on this, then he’s going to do it as thoroughly as he does everything else.

He catches glimpses, of course, because that’s unavoidable when you work in the same place. Every time he sees Dean – Ambrose, he’ll have to call him that even in his head, to distance himself from it – every time he sees Ambrose, he looks either miserable or so far from miserable that it has to be an act.

That’s good, though. It’s good that Ambrose can at least pretend well enough for it to matter. He won’t want to show any weakness in front of Regal, because Regal’s the kind of guy who’ll do something with that. He’ll be on the lookout for any hint of a flaw in Ambrose’s game plan.

The commentary team is Jim Ross and Dusty Rhodes, which is amazing. Seth wonders if Dusty’s ever heard Ambrose’s impression of him. He shows nearly everybody he goddamn talks to, he’s so proud of it.

(Seth doesn’t think about how many times Ambrose has put on his Dusty accent to make Seth smile, and he doesn’t think about the look on Ambrose’s face the first time Seth had told him it was actually pretty impressive.)

Ambrose is out first, and he looks normal. Maybe a little more tired than normal, but maybe Seth’s projecting and he looks fine. More than anything, he looks determined, which is what he’ll have to be.

He also looks pissed off, but when he’s in the ring, he looks pissed off most of the time anyway.

As Regal’s music hits, on commentary JR’s comparing Ambrose to Roddy Piper and Jake the Snake. Not a terrible comparison, and that says a lot about Ambrose. Seth’s glad that people are starting to recognize that Ambrose is a future main event player. And that’s due to him. Maybe there’s a little Piper in him, maybe a little Jake Roberts, but in the end, he’s Dean Ambrose. And Seth has no doubt that’ll be enough.

They take a minute to stare at each other, Regal and Ambrose, and Seth is struck with the realization that this is it. This is _it_.

Yeah, in the sense that this is the last match of the last episode of FCW, but more importantly, this is what Ambrose has been frothing at the mouth to get for over a year. This, for him, must feel like the culmination of so much work and effort and time spent to get Regal to give him this match. Seth can try all he wants not to care, but this match means so much to Ambrose. So it means a lot to Seth. That’s how it is.

The match starts with the most tentative lockup Seth’s ever seen. Their hands reach toward each other ever so slowly, fingers slotting into place and Seth nearly turns the monitor off.

He watches the screen with narrowed eyes. Ambrose is favoring his left arm, holding it closer to his chest than he normally would. Everybody knows that arm never healed right, and it can only have been exacerbated when Seth worked it over in their match. He doesn’t feel guilty about it, not when his title was on the line, but it’s a handicap Ambrose is going to need to work through.

Of course, Regal’s been in this business the long time, so he immediately goes for Ambrose’s left arm. Ambrose twists out pretty quickly but he’s shaking out his arm already to get feeling back in it. That’s not a good sign.

It gets progressively worse over the course of the match, with Regal expertly working over that arm until it’s hanging from Ambrose’s shoulder like it doesn’t even belong to him, and he’s ramming his shoulder into the turnbuckle to try and pop it back into place.

He’d told Seth ages ago that it pops out easy, every so often, and he’s gotten to be an expert at jamming it back in. He’d given Seth a look then that Seth hadn’t acknowledged, a look that meant he know he was giving Seth information that could and probably would be used against him.

But when Dean shouts at Regal that he’ll have to take his arm home with him this time to beat him, Seth believes him. And even though Regal smiles like Ambrose is a silly little boy with notions of grandeur, Seth’s pretty sure Regal believes him, too.

Seth can spot the exact moment the tide changes. A few straight, hard shots to the head and Regal’s balance is off. He’s stumbling, finding it hard to get to his feet, and when the camera finds his eyes, they’re unfocused.

The referee is checking on him, but he’s apparently clear to keep going because the match doesn’t stop. Ambrose is talking shit as always, and then he’s on Regal again, punching him in the side of the head, trying to rip his damn ear off, and Seth remembers the turnbuckle pad’s taken off in the corner the second before Ambrose starts grinding Regal’s ear into it.

At the first sight of blood, Seth’s out of his seat, buzzing, but the match doesn’t stop even though Regal’s obviously not okay to compete, bleeding down the side of his face and his head being continuously slammed into that exposed steel.

The trainer’s up to check on Regal, and the referee pushes Ambrose back to give him room. Ambrose is strutting around the ring which Seth knows is a mistake even before Regal bursts out of the corner and levels him. 

But then there are more officials in the ring, and the crowd’s chanting _let them fight_ but Seth can tell the match is over. He doesn’t even need to hear the bell to know that.

Ambrose is pissed. He shoves an official, then another, pacing like a caged animal. This isn’t how he wanted his match to go, Regal unable to continue competing. That’s not a win, not for Ambrose.

He throws a referee into the turnbuckle, shoves another one. There are other wrestlers out there to try and help, but Ambrose keeps them from entering the ring.

Seth knows, logically, he should be out there to help, too. But something in his stomach stops him, wants to see… wants to see. Ambrose is on Regal again with stomps and kicks and when he gets Regal into the Regal Stretch, Seth knows, with Dusty calling for the locker room to get out there and help, he _needs_ to go.

But he gives it a second. Just a second, he gives himself, to watch Ambrose put Regal in the man’s own finishing move, and he has to keep himself from smiling.

The last thing he sees on the monitor is Ambrose ripping down his kneepad, and then he’s out of the room, amidst a sea of other talent on their way to the ring to stop the injustice happening inside it.

Seth just has a different definition of justice than they do. And he’s fine with that.

He gets to Ambrose first (of course, of course he does), grabbing him by the arms and Ambrose resists but Seth’s gotten pretty good at getting Ambrose pinned down when he wants him to be. It’s automatic, the hand in Ambrose’s hair and the way Seth pins him into the corner with his knee. There are other people there but for Seth, it might as well just be the two of them.

“It’s not over,” Dean’s saying as Seth lets go of his hair. “Make sure he gets up.”

“It’s over,” Seth tells him.

“ _Make sure he gets up_ ,” Ambrose practically shouts, clawing at Seth’s leg, and Seth moves without thinking, getting his hand into Ambrose’s hair again and yanking his head back.

“It’s _over_ , Ambrose.”

God, he’s getting tired of saying that.

After that, Ambrose makes one more half-hearted bid for escape but the fight’s gone out of him, and it doesn’t take much more to wrangle him to the back and let the trainers work on Regal.

Everyone keeps an eye on Ambrose as they move to the backstage area. He hits himself in the head a couple times, and he’s mumbling under his breath, but he just goes back to his own locker room and slams the door behind him. The rest of the roster disperses after that.

Everyone but Seth, anyway. Seth’s not quite ready to leave, and he leans against the wall for a minute until there’s nobody else around to see the way he’s staring at the door to Ambrose’s locker room.

He pushes himself off the wall and knocks. From inside, there’s a loud bang and then nothing for a long, suspicious minute.

“What?” Ambrose finally calls. “I’m only talking to you if you’re – you’ll know, if it’s you. I only wanna talk to _you_.”

Seth waits a second, then says, “It’s me.”

He’s pretty sure he’s the _you_ Ambrose is talking about, but he’s just unsure enough that he considers leaving.

There’s one more beat of silence and then the sound of the door unlocking and Ambrose’s face peers out at him. He’s frowning. 

“You alone?” he asks cautiously.

“Just me,” says Seth. He makes a show of looking to the empty spaces on either side of him. “Promise.”

Ambrose looks him up and down before he opens the door to let Seth in, closing it immediately after he’s in the room.

“Did I beat him or are they calling it a post-bell DQ?” he asks shortly, rolling his shoulders. “I fuckin’ won that match.”

“I definitely don’t think anybody’s saying Regal won,” Seth says, shrugging and tugging his thumbs into the sides of his trunks in lieu of pockets. “He probably has a concussion or three. I didn’t hear anything about the official ruling.”

“I won,” Ambrose says. There’s enough heat behind it, enough remnants of that feral look in his eyes that Seth holds his hands up, placating.

“You won,” he agrees. “You beat him.”

That was all Ambrose needed to hear, apparently. His stance relaxes, his frown evens out, and – yeah, he’s chewing gum. Always chewing gum.

“I beat him,” he says. He gives Seth a smile, one that’s more hopeful than it is happy, considering he just did what he’s been wanting to do for a year. “I beat him.”

“Yeah,” Seth says slowly. “You did. Hell, you nearly killed him.”

Dean waves a dismissive hand. “He knew what he was getting into.” He takes a look at his shoulder, his arm hanging from it uselessly. “I knew what I was getting into,” he adds. “We knew. It was always gonna be ugly.”

“He did say you were going to be the one to end his career,” Seth says.

Dean shakes his head, though. “Nah. Not yet. That wasn’t it. He’ll get up from this. When I end him, he’ll stay down.”

There’s a certainty there that Seth doesn’t want to screw around with, so he sets it aside. He opens his mouth to say something else, but Dean cuts him off, eyes on his.

“I’ve missed you,” he says. It’s straightforward, almost painfully so, and Seth loses his voice for a second.

“Have you?” he finally replies.

Ambrose nods, pressing his lips together, and still sort of frowning. “I beat him,” he says, “which means it’s over, right? And you don’t have to, whatever, stay away from me for my own good anymore?”

There it is. Seth can’t say he wasn’t expecting it, and it still sends a jolt up his spine. He shrugs, careful.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d still be pissed at me,” he says.

“Course I’m still pissed at you,” says Ambrose. “I’m gonna be pissed at you for a while, asshole. Doesn’t mean I haven’t missed you.”

His eyes are clear even though the way he’s holding his arm screams that he’s in a lot of pain, and the way he’s looking at Seth, it feels a little like the first time he’d had a shot, in a friend’s basement when he was fifteen. It makes his head spin.

“Yeah?” he says. His mouth is dry.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Don’t make me say it again. Now get out of my locker room and get dressed so you can take me back to the hotel.”

“Oh,” says Seth. “Oh. Am I doing that?”

He’s not surprised when Dean rolls his eyes again. God, he feels _giddy_ , a little bit. It’s the last day he’ll be calling himself an FCW superstar, and he’s surely getting stripped of the title because of it, and Dean still likes him. That shouldn’t be the most important thing.

“Yeah, you’re doing that, princess. Why do I like you, again?” Dean pushes his shoulder. It’s a little too hard to be playful but not hard enough for Seth to get angry about it. “You’re lucky you’ve got a nice ass.”

“Whatever,” Seth says. He’s grinning all of a sudden, warm from his head to his toes and he feels ridiculous but Dean’s grinning too, even though he’s trying to hide it by ducking his head and turning away.

“Get out,” he orders, pointing to the door. “You’d better be ready by the time I’m done or I’m stealing your keys again.”

“I thought you said it didn’t count as stealing if you give them back?” Seth’s shifted closer, or Dean has, or they both have.

“Shut up,” Dean mutters and then they’re kissing and it’s just as good as it ever was. Something in Seth clicks back into place, something he hadn’t known shifted off balance, planets orbiting each other once again.

And he’s never telling Dean that he just thought of them as planets in alignment with each other.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Dean says, biting Seth’s lower lip just a little too hard, and Seth forgets for a moment that Dean can’t actually read his mind. “Don’t do that to me again.”

This isn’t like Dean, letting people see him like this, vulnerable. Then again, he’s just been through a grueling match, one he’s been wanting over a year, and they might’ve broken up and gotten back together again, and Seth’s not just _people_ , is he? Not to Dean, not now.

“I won’t,” he says, his thumb stroking up the sharp line of Dean’s jaw, the just barely scratch of stubble scraping against his skin. There’s no way he can promise this for anything other than now; Seth can’t tell the future, but he can give Dean as much of right now as is possible. He can do that. That’s all he can give and, he thinks, all Dean’s asking.

Dean gives him this little smile, a plain, self-deprecating sort of thing, and says, “I go kind of stupid over you sometimes.”

“Really?” Seth asks. It sounds like he’s fishing, but he’s not. It’s just that he hadn’t thought Dean would go kind of stupid over anything. He’s seen Dean be a lot of things. Stupid isn’t one of them.

“Fuck off, like you don’t know.” Dean tugs on Seth’s ear and nudges him backward. “Go. Out. I’m done embarrassing myself for today. Out,” he says again, and this time he actually pushes Seth toward the door.

“Okay, I’m going, just—one thing,” Seth says, his hand on the handle of the door, pushing it down, ready to open.

Dean sighs, put-upon. “Yes?” he draws out like Seth’s wasting all his precious time.

Seth shrugs a shoulder. “Just, I go kind of stupid over you sometimes, too.”

He thinks, then, looking at Dean, Dean looking back at him: that’s the closest he’s ever going to get to saying it. For the first time, he kind of thinks that might be all right.

Dean sniffs, his mouth twitching a little. “Course you do,” he mumbles. “I’m fuckin’ awesome.”

But the look he gives Seth under his eyelashes makes Seth wonder if Dean heard more in what Seth just said than what he meant Dean to hear.

If he did, he doesn’t say anything about it. He just shoos (actually _shoos_ , with the hand motions and everything) Seth away, and closes the door behind him.

Seth takes exactly one second to decide what to do next. He starts heading back to his locker room. He wouldn’t put it past Dean to hotwire his car if he doesn’t manage to get done before him.

\--

The new show (they’re calling it NXT Wrestling, and they’re getting new titles and a new set design; new everything except the arena, really) doesn’t start for another two weeks, on the first of August. Seth guesses they’d wanted a nice even number for the new fresh start.

It does mean, though, that he doesn’t have much to do in the meantime, other than hang out with Dean. If he’s being honest with himself, it’s not much of a sacrifice. They haven’t talked about their near-month without contact since it ended, and Seth’s fine leaving it behind them. If Dean doesn’t want to talk about it, Seth’s not going to force the issue.

“You gonna go for the new title?” Seth asks, his head tipped back off the bed. Childish, maybe, looking at Dean from upside down, where he’s sat in the chair next to the bed, but Seth tries not to take himself too seriously. “How do you think they’re gonna award it?”

Dean’s quiet for a second. He’s been quieter, as of late, as the re-debut date gets closer. Nerves, maybe, or his arm still hasn’t healed right. Whatever it is, Dean’ll tell him if he wants to.

Seth just can’t bring himself to be upset or pushy or insistent about anything lately. He’d been miserable without Dean and yeah, maybe that’s stupid, and maybe he’s a grown man who can handle himself and doesn’t need anything else. But he’s happier when he’s talking to Dean. If you’d told him that a year ago, he’d have thought you were crazy, but he’s happier when he and Dean are whatever he and Dean are.

“Tournament, probably,” Dean finally says. “That’s how they do vacant titles, right? Eight man tournament, I’d say.”

Seth hums. “Who’d the other participants be? Me, you, who else?”

Another one of those pauses. “Dallas. Obviously, he’s a sure bet.”

“Right, definitely.” Seth rolls over, shoving his hair out of his face. “Kruger, he’s another I’d put money on.”

“Gets harder after that, though,” Dean admits. He props one of his feet up on the bed next to Seth’s shoulder. “We keep losing all our best guys to the main roster.”

“Richie, you think?” Seth offers. “Now that there’s no 15 title to go for, as far as we know.”

“Wouldn’t shock me,” Dean agrees, prodding his toes against Seth’s arm. “Guess we’ll find everything out on the first episode, like everyone else.”

“Only a few days left,” Seth mumbles. He pushes Dean’s leg away, but it insistently returns. “I’m getting excited. Can’t wait to get back in the ring.”

Dean snorts, softly. “Me either, man,” he says. “Like an itch, you know?”

He doesn’t give Seth a chance to answer before he’s shoving out of the chair and onto the bed with Seth, sitting astride his lower back.

“What’re you doing?” Seth laughs, trying to twist out from under him. “Get off.”

“Nah, I think I’ll stay here,” says Dean. He has Seth pretty well pinned, a knee on either side of him. “You’re comfortable.”

Seth manages to twist onto his back instead of his stomach after a hard wriggle, and he settles his hands on Dean’s thighs. “Still comfortable?” he asks.

Dean looks thoughtful. “Yep,” he confirms. He puts his own hands on Seth’s, pushing them off onto his stomach.

“You’ve been weird lately,” Seth blurts. His tendency toward saying the worst thing at the worst time hasn’t faded, apparently. Dean’s face closes off just a little, a frown etched in his forehead.

“Have I?” Dean asks. Even now, there’s something just a little off about his voice.

“Yeah,” says Seth. He’s started it now, he might as well power through. “I just… if something was wrong, you’d tell me. Right?”

Dean’s still frowning. “I guess?” he says slowly. “Yeah. If you needed to know.”

Well, that’s not really what he wanted to hear, but it’s better than nothing. It’s better than the vague mocking he was expecting.

“If I needed to know?” he says back to Dean.

“Yeah.” There’s a challenge there now. “Yeah, if you needed to know.”

Seth’s sure Dean’s expecting him to argue, demand answers, be upset, but it’s still fresh in his mind how awful it was when Dean wasn’t around, so he won’t. It’s better than nothing, and that’s enough. 

“Okay,” he says. “As long as you’d tell me if I needed to know.”

Dean’s eyes cut away from him and then back. It’s quick, but it’s all Seth needs to see to know that yeah, there’s something, but he _just said_ he’d leave Dean alone about it, so he will.

“Cross my heart and shit,” Dean mumbles, leaning down to kiss Seth. It’s a deflection and Seth lets him get away with it. Dean’ll tell him if he needs to know.

As it turns out, Dean doesn’t need to tell him at all. It becomes abundantly clear what he wasn’t telling Seth at the first NXT show, when Seth’s sitting in the back and the names of the people in the tournament (they were right about that, ha) are being called.

Steamboat, Dallas, Kruger, him – they were right about the entrants too, and Seth tries not to feel too smug – McGillicutty, McIntyre, Mahal, Gabriel.

That’s eight. And that’s all the names, but it can’t be, because there’s one missing.

Even then, Seth doesn’t quite _get_ it. Dean might’ve been left off because someone in the office has a grudge, or even, there are a lot of talented guys on the roster and he might get a spot some other time, but still, something about it smells wrong to Seth.

He has a match to get ready for but it can wait. He pops out the door of his locker room and flags down the first person he sees.

“Dallas!” he calls, and Bo nearly falls over jerking around to see who’s talking to him. “Hey, you seen Ambrose around?” he asks, cutting straight to the point.

Bo makes a considering noise, holding his hand to his chin and stroking it like he thinks he’s a detective in an old black and white movie. Of course he had to be the first person Seth saw. If he ever wants the most roundabout answer to a question, he knows who to go to.

“Y’know, I don’t think I have,” says Bo, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Gosh, he usually makes himself quite the spectacle, but I haven’t seen him at all. Are you looking for him?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at Seth. “Are you going to start a fight backstage?”

“Uh, no,” Seth mutters, his brain already moving on past this conversation. “Thanks, Dallas, I’ll see you later.”

“I’ll let you know if I find him!” Bo calls after him as Seth moves on down the hallway.

Seth’s pretty sure he’s not going to find Dean no matter how hard he looks, but he scours the arena as well as he can. Dean’s not in the locker room he’d claimed as his when he got there. He’s not in the communal locker room, and nobody in there has seen him, either. He’s just not in the building.

It throws him off his game during his match against McIntyre, which he can’t afford. Even so, he’s struggling until he gets a lucky break, finishing it off with the Blackout. He thinks the crowd can tell he’s not all there because the finish doesn’t get as big a reaction as he usually does and that just pisses him off more.

There are a lot of potential explanations for Dean not being there. He might just not be scheduled for tonight, and he’ll be there next week, or he might be hanging around somewhere Seth forgot to check, or… Or he might not be on the show anymore.

A whole new show means a whole new start. Maybe, for Dean, that’s a lot more literal than Seth had thought.

Whatever the reasoning behind it, once the show’s over, Seth takes the fastest shower of his life and probably breaks the law a few times in his haste to get back to the hotel, his destination clear in his mind. Even the five minutes it takes to get to the hotel from the arena have all sorts of ideas flying wild in his head.

What if Dean isn’t even at the hotel anymore? He was there yesterday, hell, he was there _this morning_ but there would be enough time for him to get his stuff together and quietly leave while Seth was gone for the show.

Dean hadn’t given any indication he was planning on something like that when Seth had left his room that morning, but then, when Seth had cheerfully said _see you at the arena_ , he hadn’t mentioned that Seth wouldn’t.

That’s what’s making him the most worried. It’s not just that Dean hadn’t been at the arena, because sometimes they’re just not scheduled for the same days. Even though Dean’s a huge draw, there’s always the chance they just didn’t have him on the bill tonight.

It’s not that. It’s that Dean didn’t say one word about it. Every time Seth’s mentioned both of them being there, Dean went along with it, didn’t say one word about not being on the show tonight.

He’s probably being unreasonable. Dean just wasn’t scheduled tonight, that’s all, and he forgot, or he found out late. Seth’s freaking out for no reason, and Dean’s going to call him an idiot, and he’ll deserve it.

Seth takes a deep breath and tells himself firmly to stop being stupid before he raps his knuckles on the door to what was Dean’s room this morning. Christ, if someone other than Dean opens the door, he has no idea what he’s going to do.

But he’s trying not to be stupid, so he’s not going to worry about that.

There’s a moment of silence long enough that the panicky buzz starts up in Seth’s brain again, and then Dean says, “Yeah?”

Seth has to cough before words will come out through his mouth, dry as a desert. “It’s me.”

Another pause, and then Dean opens the door. He’s barefoot, wearing a t-shirt and shorts and a cautious look, one hand in his pocket.

Seth clears his throat. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Dean jerks his head, and Seth enters, letting Dean close the door behind him.

“You, uh. You weren’t at the arena.” There. Nice and simple, not accusatory, and now Dean will laugh at him and call him an idiot and it’s all fine.

Dean doesn’t laugh. He looks at Seth with consideration, and then rolls his shoulders, letting out a whoosh of breath.

“That’s probably because I’m not on the roster,” he says.

Seth takes a step back like it’s a physical blow. “You’re not on the roster.” It’s not a question. “What the fuck do you mean you’re not on the roster?” Neither is that, really, but Dean answers anyway.

“I mean that they probably frown on people showing up to the arena when they’re not employed by the company.” Dean’s being much more calm about this than Seth wants. He wants Dean to be angry because he’s angry and it’s harder to be angry when Dean’s just so matter-of-fact about the whole thing.

“Since when are you not employed by the company? You’re one of the only reasons anyone watches the show,” Seth says. He belatedly realizes he’s started pacing the space between the wall and the end of the bed.

“Expelled for bad conduct,” says Dean. “Smacked around a couple referees. Concussed an announcer.”

“It was a sanctioned match,” Seth protests. Since when does he advocate for this kind of thing? Since Dean, he guesses. 

“And I went too far.” The cadence of Dean’s voice makes Seth feel like he’s quoting someone. “I took it too far and now I have to deal with the consequences of my actions.”

“That’s bullshit,” says Seth. It feels so sharp in his mouth he thinks he cuts his tongue. “That’s _bullshit_. What, they just – told you not to come in to work anymore? That’s it? That’s all?”

“I don’t make the rules, Seth.” Dean flops down onto his bed. His posture’s relaxed but he’s watching Seth like a hawk. “Wouldn’t follow this one, either, but I’m not really looking to get arrested, so.”

“How can you be so calm about this?” Seth shoots at him. He’s still pacing. “Aren’t you pissed?”

“Sure I’m pissed,” Dean says, looking anything but. “There’s nothing I can do about it, I can’t force them to hire me back. I can’t force them to put me on the show.”

“So what are you supposed to do now?” Seth really wishes he had more room to pace. “Are you, are you leaving? Are you gonna go to another promotion?” His mouth is suddenly very dry, and he tries to swallow, his throat bobbing uselessly.

“Don’t know yet,” Dean says after a pause. “Part of me says I should, you know? I’m not stupid, I know I’m pretty valuable to a lot of people. I don’t know who let it out, but I keep getting offers asking if it’s true I’m out and if I wanna sign with them. It’s tempting, considering I’m essentially out of work right now.”

Seth shoves his hands through his hair and takes a deep breath. “All right. Okay. That makes sense, that’d be, that’d be the smart thing to do.”

“Sit down,” Dean says. He doesn’t phrase it like a question, shuffling to one side to make room on the bed. “You’re making me anxious just looking at you, kid.”

“I don’t want to sit down,” Seth mumbles, toward the wall one-two-three-four-five-six turn around back toward the bed one-two-three-four-five—

“Seth.” His tone’s more firm now. “Sit down.”

Seth sighs and steps around the corner to sit, back pressed against the wall at the head of it, one leg hanging off the side. “Okay, I’m sitting down.”

“See, was that so hard?” Dean asks, rolling onto his side and propping up onto one elbow. “Now if you’ll let me talk for a second, I can tell you I’m not going anywhere.”

“Who says I was worried about that?” Seth mumbles, but it’s a pathetic excuse for a lie and the look Dean gives him tells him he’s aware. Seth clears his throat. “Okay. Talk to me. I’m all ears.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean repeats, looking at Seth like that’s what he wants to stick. “Hell or high water, I guess I’m here now, and I don’t want to leave.” He laughs a little, a weird laugh like he’s not sure whether something’s actually funny or not. “I don’t really, uh, I move around a lot. Always have. It’s not like, I don’t usually find reasons to stay places, but, well, you kind of fucked that up for me, so.”

Seth opens his mouth but Dean _shushes_ him, so he huffs and closes it again.

“I don’t really know what I’m gonna do,” Dean says, his mouth quirking up at the corner. “I never really know what I’m gonna do, I guess. I came here because I wanted to wrestle and I wanted to wrestle for the WWE, and that hasn’t changed. I’m a wrestler. It’s not something I do, it’s something I _am_.”

Seth can relate to that. It resonates in his chest a little, but Dean doesn’t want him talking, so he just nods, and, as subtly as he can, pushes his toe against Dean’s leg. _Me, too_ , he tries to say without words. _You understand._

“This place is paid up until the end of August,” Dean says. “That’s when my contract ran out, and they, you know, they’re not bad guys in the office, sometimes. Gave me the month to get my affairs in order or whatever.”

He can’t stay quiet anymore. “Then what?” he asks, quiet, unsure if he really wants to know the answer.

Dean lets out a sighs. “I dunno. Find someone who’ll let me stay on their couch, I guess.”

“Stay with me.” It’s out of his mouth before he can stop it, a reoccurring problem he seems to have around Dean.

There’s another one of those silences, the ones that make Seth embarrassed to be a person.

“I mean,” he rushes to clarify, “I mean, uh, if you… No, I mean what I said,” he decides. Dean still hasn’t said anything but Seth’s not going to take it back. “Stay with me after the month’s over.”

“You don’t have a couch,” Dean says slowly. It’s not a no. It’s not a no, and the way he’s looking at Seth is very considering. 

“I’ve got a bed,” Seth says. His throat’s dry again. “I know it’s not, like, you’d probably want your own space, but, I don’t know. It’d let you stay in Florida, you could look for promotions around here, or just hang around, even, in case they call you up, want you back.”

“You know you’re kind of asking me to move in with you?” Dean asks. He doesn’t say it like he’s upset about it, just offering it to Seth like he maybe hasn’t considered the question.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything you don’t want it to.” Seth licks his lips, and he can tell the moment Dean realizes Seth’s parroting back something Dean said to him all the time when they first started this. Seth’s been calling it a ‘whatever-it-is,’ thinking of it as something undefinable, without concrete terms. Part of him still thinks it’s too complicated and fucked up for there to be a word for it, but part of him also thinks that relationships are complicated and fucked up things in and of themselves.

(He’s still coming to terms with that other word, the one he only thinks accidentally, the one he still hasn’t said out loud. That’ll come in time, or it won’t. There’s no use worrying about it either way.)

Dean’s eyes have gone sharp and focused, and Seth’s just noticed his hand’s on Seth’s stomach. It’s not doing anything, just resting there, his fingers drumming almost absently.

“What if I want it to mean something you don’t want it to?” he offers. Seth’s not even sure what that means. He frowns at Dean, trying to parse through the hidden meaning there, the words Dean isn’t saying. He knows they’re there.

“I don’t think that’s, uh. What do you want it to mean?” There’s a blooming, cautious hope in Seth’s stomach. Really, Dean wanting it to mean something, wanting it to mean anything at all is more than Seth could ask for. Dean wanting this to be more than nothing is something Seth’s been waiting for, but it’s not really something he’d ever thought he’d _get_.

“I don’t know,” Dean admits, or—he’s not quite looking at Seth anymore, instead watching the way his hand is splayed on Seth’s stomach. “Something, maybe.”

“Okay,” Seth agrees. He doesn’t think Dean was expecting such a quick acquiescence because his head snaps up, and now he’s the one frowning at Seth.

“Okay?” he repeats.

“Yeah, I mean, yeah.” Seth shrugs as well as he can. “Something, maybe, for me, too.”

God, they’re the fucking worst at _talking_ and it’s frustrating, because they’re not. They’re not bad at talking when they’re talking about anything other than this. They can talk for hours about the best kind of pizza or the worst porn titles on the hotel pay per view.

But feelings? Emotions? Using words to describe this, give it a name? All of a sudden, it’s hard to even open their mouths, or look at each other head on.

“We’re kind of bad at this, I think,” Dean mutters, like a mind-reader.

“I don’t know,” Seth says, sliding his hand on top of Dean’s. It’s ridiculously sentimental and Seth should probably be embarrassed, but fuck it. He’s young and in – stuff. Things. Love. He’s a sap at heart and Dean can just deal with it. “I think we’re doing okay.”

Dean’s staring at their hands, and he’s smiling a little, but he rolls his eyes. “Yeah, we’re doing okay,” he says. “I guess, okay, then. Long as you’re sure you won’t get sick of me.”

“I’m already sick of you,” Seth retorts, and Dean coughs a mixture of laughter and astonishment.

“What’ve you done to me?” he asks, rolling to straddle Seth’s waist. “I used to not give a shit about anyone.”

“You saying you give a shit about me?” Seth asks, his hands settling in their favorite position, at the place Dean’s sides flare out into his hips. “Is that what I just heard?”

It’s easier to treat it like this, like something lighthearted and easygoing. Seth likes this way of loving Dean more than the way that weighs down his chest and cuts off his air. He likes when loving Dean is like breathing instead of choking.

“Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart,” Dean sneers. There’s a lightness in his eyes. “I move in with all the pretty boys.”

“Come here and kiss me,” Seth instructs, his hand sliding up Dean’s side as he leans down, because Dean wasn’t fooling either of them, and the way he kisses Seth makes him think sometimes that he’s not the only one who feels this way.

Of course, he’s a sap at heart, so he might be biased. But he’ll let himself think he’s not, just for a little while.

\--

Seth’s not really sure why he’s expecting that month to go by more slowly than it does. Between being vaguely nervous about Dean’s impending arrival into his living space and training to be ready to make his way through the ranks and become the first ever NXT champion, he hardly notices it’s almost the end of August until it’s the 29th and he’s getting ready to go out for the final match of the tournament against Jinder.

Dean wished him luck that morning, in his own _Dean_ sort of way, so hidden with sarcasm and playful insults that it’s hard to distinguish the genuine good wishes from everything else. But it’s Dean, and Seth knows Dean, so he’s gotten all right at making out the real stuff.

It still feels weird to be in his locker room without Dean there. Seth still finds himself on occasion turning to discuss something with an empty chair. It makes him feel just a little pathetic, and sometimes he actually ends up texting Dean to get rid of the nagging feeling in his chest.

Dean doesn’t really know very much about how to use a cell phone other than that the _send_ button accepts calls. When Seth had made fun of him, he protested that the only people he ever needs to talk to are Seth and the main office, so knowing how to text was worthless.

Seth gives himself another minute of quiet, just him alone in his room, shaking out his wrists, before he steps out into the hallway. There are people milling around everywhere and quite a few of them stop to smile or offer him a handshake, and he appreciates it, but he appreciates just as much if not more those who keep their distance, merely giving him a nod or a wave and letting him have his space.

He can do this. He and Jinder can put on an amazing match, he knows that, and thinking about how he got cheap-shotted last week makes the determination burn hot in his veins. He’s got this, just like he always does.

And he was right: it’s a great match. Probably one of Seth’s best matches with somebody not named Dean Ambrose, near falls abound, pin attempt after pin attempt, and a few times Seth almost loses it, but then he catches a break, and with the rest of the roster watching at the top of the ramp, he hits a buckle bomb and then the Blackout for the one-two-three. He’s the first ever NXT champion.

God, but it feels amazing when he’s lifted onto shoulders, he’s just made history and his fellow wrestlers are holding him high and he’s got a title back in his hands, and it feels like everything he’s worked for. The Florida Heavyweight title was special but this, this is a title nobody’s held before. He’s the only one who’s earned this and it feels so right, so good.

The only thing that could make this moment better would be if Dean was here, but hey, Seth’ll take what he can get.

As the show goes off the air, he’s let down off of everyone’s shoulders, and he dawdles to smack hands with the audience as the others trail back up the ramp. His title thrown over his shoulder, he’s almost back to his locker room when a large, heavy hand settles onto his shoulder.

“Seth,” says a voice he recognizes, and Seth’s smiling before he even turns around to see.

“Hey, Roman,” he greets, shoving a hand through his hair. “Haven’t seen you in forever, man.”

“I’m off air for a while,” Roman says, shrugging. “I think they wanna repackage me, they mentioned something about maybe letting me go by my name, and if so, I’m all for it.”

Seth laughs, giddy, the weight of his belt heavy on his shoulder. “I hope you’re back sooner than later, I could use some competition for this thing.”

“I’ll do my best.” Roman’s mouth curves into a smile. “Anyway, I didn’t just want to say hello, though it has been too long since we’ve talked. I, uh, I got you a… gift, you might say. In congratulations, for winning the championship.”

“Uh, okay?” Seth pushes his hair out of his eyes again. “I don’t—what is it?”

Roman’s smile widens even as his brows pull together a little. “I, uh, well, it knocked on my door about an hour ago and wouldn’t leave me alone ‘til I brought it here, so I left it in your locker room.” He clasps a hand to Seth’s shoulder and gives him a nod. “Congratulations. I’ll see you around, friend.”

“Yeah, see you,” Seth mutters, but he’s already distracted by his own burgeoning hope which he tries to squash but doesn’t do a very good job of it. He’s already almost to his locker room so he takes the half a dozen steps at a fast pace and shoves open his door.

“Hey, honey,” Dean says, smug smirk in place, leaning against the far wall. He looks very proud of himself. “Miss me?”

“Did you bully Roman into bringing you here so you could be here when I won the title?” Seth’s almost breathing harder than he was right after the match. “Is that a thing you really did?”

“Have you seen the guy?” Dean raises his eyebrows. “You really think I could bully him into a damn thing? I was very polite about it.”

“I don’t believe a word of that.” But it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter at all; Seth’s blindingly happy and Dean’s here, and Seth wants to kiss him so badly he can’t think straight, so he does. He almost trips over a chair in his haste to get to Dean, belt in one hand, the other settling at Dean’s waist, and it’s so easy to settle into it, to try and tell Dean without words how he’s feeling right now.

“Easy, babe,” Dean says softly. Seth only notices then how hard he’s grasping Dean’s hip, and his head’s pounding with a mixture of adrenaline and joy. “I’m right here.”

“You are, aren’t you?” Seth asks, his mouth still on Dean’s so it ends up coming out muddled. “You’re here.”

“Don’t go getting sappy on me, Rollins,” Dean warns. “Just thought you might wanna celebrate with a friendly face.”

“Right, no getting sappy.” Seth laughs, and presses the heel of his free hand into his eye. He feels so happy it’s almost like a high. “Sorry. Thanks,” he adds.

“Hey, no problem. What I’m for, right?” Dean’s expression is uncharacteristically soft, relaxed at the edges, and he leans in to kiss Seth again. “The things I do for you, though. I had to _talk_ to Reigns and then he only agreed to drive me here after like half an hour of begging and pleading. What an asshole. I don’t know what you see in him.”

“I like his hair,” Seth says airily. “I’m hoping he’ll give me some deep conditioning tips.” 

Dean’s mouth twists like it does whenever he’s stopping himself from saying something awful and dirty. “Yeah, whatever. He’s all right, I guess,” he grumbles.

“You gonna start hanging out with all my friends?” Seth asks leaning his hips against Dean’s to pin him to the wall. “Kind of cute, really.”

“Oh my god,” Dean says, rolling his eyes so hard it looks like it hurts. “Like who? You want me and Dallas to become pen pals?”

Seth gives himself a second to think about that. “Definitely,” he decides.

“Shut up,” Dean says, kissing Seth yet again, “and take me home.”

Seth can’t be bothered to shut down the part of his brain that just went to pieces over that, so he just laughs, something stupid and breathless. “I gotta shower,” he says, “and change.”

“I’ll be here.” Dean pats his ass as Seth pulls back and moves to shift past him. “Take your time.”

Seth doesn’t take his time. He and Dean are in his car on the way back to the hotel by twenty minutes later, and Seth has a championship in his bag and he’s still stupidly in love with a guy who’s going to be living with him in a few days and everything in his life is too good for him to think at all about any of the bad things.

“What d’you wanna do to celebrate?” Dean asks. He’d never admit it, because he’s always giving Seth shit about the music he likes, but his fingers are tapping on the armrest along to the beat of the song on the radio.

Seth hums. “Remember how we celebrated when I won the Florida Heavyweight title?”

He can hear the grin when Dean responds even without looking at him. “It was pretty memorable, yeah. You ever clean it after that?”

“Don’t be disgusting; of course I cleaned it. Very thoroughly.” Seth puts the car into park and turns to look at Dean. “I was thinking maybe you could fuck me, if you’re up for it.”

It sounds like Dean chokes on his tongue, but you wouldn’t know it from looking at him. “Uh, yeah, sure, if that’s what you want. We can do that. I can do that.”

“Good.” Seth shoves his keys into his pocket and leans into the back seat to grab his bag. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

As he’s opening the door, he hears Dean snort, and mumble, “What the fuck else would I say?”

They’re about a foot in the door when Dean presses up behind him. Seth drops his bag, turns to face him, and pushes Dean against the door. Dean goes with it, though he looks more intrigued by Seth’s actions than anything else.

It’s always so strange to him how Dean is so easy like this, so moveable and ready to be instructed. As far as Seth’s experienced, it’s the only time he’s ever like that, the rest of the time ornery and refusing to follow any plan that’s not his own.

Both are good looks on him. Stubborn or submissive, Seth likes him either way. 

“You got a problem?” Dean asks, though he hasn’t tried to get out of Seth’s grip. He narrows his eyes at Seth.

“No, no problem.” Seth laughs to himself, because he’s ridiculous, isn’t he? This is all ridiculous and he’s the Ridiculous King. “No problem at all. Come on,” he adds, letting go of Dean’s wrists to flick on the light and drop onto his bed. He gives Dean what he hopes is an enticing look. 

He isn’t sure if the smile Dean gives him in return is pleased or bewildered, but he does toe his shoes off and then crawl onto the bed, one knee on either side of Seth’s thigh.

“You’re being… different,” he notes, reclining on his haunches to look suspiciously at Seth. 

“First ever NXT champion?” Seth offers, using two fingers in the collar of Dean’s shirt to pull him down so they can kiss again. “Big day. Big changes. Happy.”

“’kay,” Dean mumbles. The kiss has distracted him enough that he doesn’t really care about Seth’s being different, or if he does, he deigns it less important than what they’re doing, which Seth appreciates.

Getting each other’s clothes off is a smooth process, something they’re used to by now, shirts off over heads and dragging jeans down hips, though Dean does give Seth’s foot a comically confused look when he tries to pull his pants off without taking his shoes off first.

“Shut up,” says Dean when Seth laughs at him, nosing a kiss to Seth’s hip and biting him in reproach. “What’re you laughin’ at?”

“You,” Seth answers honestly, pushing at Dean’s shoulder to urge him back up. His hand rests on the warmth of Dean’s side when he kisses him again, his thumb tucked up in a valley between two of Dean’s ribs.

“What d’you want?” Dean asks, quiet now, still so close that Seth can feel it when he blinks.

He doesn’t have to think about the answer. “You,” he says again. Cheesy as it may be, it’s the only truthful answer he can give.

Seth can feel Dean’s smile against the side of his face. “Shut up,” he mumbles again, his hand sliding down the length of Seth’s arm to lace their fingers and push his hand back against the bed. “I wanna suck your dick.”

With that, he shifts down Seth’s body, but he doesn’t let go of Seth’s hand, instead dragging it down with him to rest next to Seth’s hip.

“I’m not stopping you,” Seth says, squeezing Dean’s hand as well as he can. It’s kind of nice, not that he’d say that aloud. Not that Dean would let him say it aloud.

Dean’s mouth is as good as it always is, hot and wet and he’s got one hand around the base of Seth’s dick while the other is still loosely clasped with Seth’s. His eyes are closed, but Seth watches him anyway, spreading his legs a little more to make room.

It proceeds like any normal blowjob, which is why Seth jumps when, his head tipped back, he feels Dean’s fingers, slick and a little cold, just behind his balls. 

Mostly it’s just that he’s not expecting it, which is why he says, “What?” out loud even though he knows exactly what.

He deserves it when Dean manages to give him an incredulous look even with his mouth still on Seth’s cock. He pulls back enough to say, “What?” back at him.

“Nothing,” Seth says, coughing. He makes a _go ahead_ motion with his hand, which he also immediately regrets. “Just wasn’t expecting it. Cold,” he adds.

“It’ll warm up.” Dean keeps his eyes on Seth this time, finding Seth’s cock with his tongue like someone attempting to find the straw in their drink.

Seth chokes on laughter, biting his lip as hard as he can. It hurts enough that it’s grounding. Dean’s fingertips are light as they trace his skin, and Seth can’t hold back a shudder.

“Better?” Dean asks. It’s a more insistent touch now, fingers slipping down and teasing a push inside. Seth takes a deep breath, nodding.

“Yeah. It’s good. You can – you know, if you want.” He bends one of his legs at the knee, and Dean smiles at him.

“Can I?” Another teasing press of his fingers, the tip of one slippery and no longer cold as it presses against him. “You want me to?”

“Yes.” Seth draws it out, narrowing his eyes down at Dean. “Pretty please?” he requests.

Dean grins at him, tipping his head to rest against Seth’s thigh as he presses a finger into Seth. He’s going more slowly than Seth needs him to but it’s kind of sweet, so he won’t say anything about it. Instead, he reaches down and threads his own fingers through Dean’s hair, wordlessly encouraging.

“Told you it’d warm up.” Dean kisses his thigh. His eyelids have half-lowered, and he’s repetitively licking his lips.

“Didn’t argue with you.” Seth tries to push down against Dean’s finger, and when that doesn’t work, sighs. “I’m not, you know, I can take more than that. I asked if you wanted to _fuck_ me.”

Dean’s eyes flash a little, and his mouth curls in a little smile. “Oh, we’ll get to that. Don’t worry your pretty head. I’ll fuck you so good you’ll forget your own name.”

“That a promise?” Seth challenges, nearly yelping when Dean’s finger moves, leaving and returning alongside another. That’s better, more _feeling_ , and it burns a little because it’s so all at once but it isn’t unbearable and more than that, it’s exactly what Seth wants.

“Better for you, sweetie?” Dean says, a mocking lilt on the end, and Seth bats at him with a foot.

There’s another shock of cold as Dean adds more lube to his fingers, removing them before pushing them back in. It all feels slick and like, like _pressure_ more than anything. Then again, this is the part he’s done before.

He’s trying not to think about that, much. He’s never done a lot of things, and doesn’t let that stop him. He’s not gonna let it stop him from this, now, not when he knows it’s going to be good and he knows (even if it’s unspoken) that Dean’s not going to hurt him. Hell, he knows that just from how it’s been going so far.

It’s not like Dean to be so careful. Maybe he’s a little nervous, too. If he is, that’s the only way he’s shown it.

The third finger stretches to the point of actual pain but Seth grits his teeth, and braces his feet against the bed. There’s a pause in movement at that, and Dean says, “Y’okay?” all gruff caution.

“Don’t be an asshole,” Seth says, even though Dean’s being, well, not; he knows Dean’ll know how he means it. Either way, Dean doesn’t say anything when Seth grabs his hand, sweaty palms and everything. God, it’s warm in Florida in August, even with the aircon going full blast, and Seth feels warm inside and out.

It takes a minute or two with Dean rocking his fingers in and out of Seth for it to stop being as painful, and Dean watches his face the whole time. Seth can feel his eyes even after he throws his free arm over his own, breathing heavily in and out.

“Okay,” Seth says, but it comes out raspy and he coughs. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. That’s good, I’m good, do it.”

“Sure?” Dean’s already leaning back, and Seth feels empty when he pulls his fingers out, clenching wildly around nothing. As Seth watches, Dean leans over where he’d dropped the lube and tears a condom open with his teeth. He rolls it on faster than Seth’s ever seen someone put a condom on before.

Seth had been wondering if Dean’s feeling the same bubbly anticipatory feeling as Seth is, and he thinks it’s a sign he might be when Dean fumbles with the lube in his attempt to apply it to himself. Seth nudges Dean’s hip with his leg, god, they’re both so warm and sweaty and eager like teenagers, Seth hasn’t felt this desperate for dick since, since _forever_.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Dean mumbles, patting Seth’s side. “Y’wanna—d’you wanna turn over, or—it’d probably be less—“

“No,” Seth says, hooking his leg around Dean’s hip just to make sure there’s no, he doesn’t know, illicit flipping. “No, just like this.”

Dean settles a hand next to Seth’s shoulder on the bed, and he nods. “Okay. Okay, like this. That’s, that’s good, that’s good,” he murmurs. He’s balancing on his knees, and one hand dips between them to guide himself into Seth.

He knew, logically, that dicks are bigger than a few fingers, or at least Dean’s is. He breathes out all of the air in his lungs as Dean pushes forward, doing his best to not tighten up or bear down. It’s a lot, it’s a lot and very much at once, and he doesn’t know how obvious it is on his face but once Dean’s all the way in, his hips nestled against Seth’s, he stops moving.

“Fuck,” he says, his hair in his eyes. Seth can feel him trembling, just a little. “Fucking oh my god.”

“Yeah,” Seth fervently agrees. He’s not sure if they’re oh-my-god-ing over the same sensation, exactly, but Seth feels very… he feels very oh my god. He adjusts his position, hitches his ankle up over Dean’s shoulder and that’s, that’s better, he likes that better. The angle’s better like this, and Seth inhales, shoving his hair out of his eyes with a damp hand.

“Y’want me t’move?” Dean asks. His own hand is still braced beside Seth’s shoulder, but the other is grasping Seth’s thigh and it’s shaking a bit. “Or not yet?”

“Gimme a minute,” Seth says despite himself. He is getting used to the pressure, slowly but surely. Still, he wants a moment more of this, of a fading ache and the feeling of being Full, with a capital F, of being so close to Dean, so interlocked with Dean that it feels more than physical.

He wonders if Dean feels this way when their positions are reversed. He wonders if it’d feel as good if it wasn’t Dean. He thinks it wouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he says. He fumbles to grab Dean’s shoulder, slippery and smooth. “Go, move, I’m good.”

It’s good that Dean doesn’t ask him again if he’s sure. He just nods, a quick, jerky movement, and begins to move. Keeping it slow and steady, it still hits Seth like a freight train. It doesn’t hurt, exactly – it’s more like when you get used to sitting a certain way and you move, and your leg feels like it’s put on wrong. Not painful, just… new. Different.

Dean’s almost all of the way out when he pushes back in, and it forces a groan from Seth’s mouth, embarrassingly loud. It’s just such a change, full and then almost, almost empty, and then full again. It’s like Dean’s fucking the air right out of his lungs, making it so much harder to breathe.

“You look good like this,” Dean says, his voice tight and low. “Really good. You look so fucking good, Seth.”

Seth doubts that, with his hair sticking to his forehead, sweaty with one leg hitched up near his ear, almost, no doubt making all manner of stupid faces. 

“I’ve wanted to do this so fucking long,” says Dean, punctuating it with a push into Seth that makes him gasp, his hand fisting in the comforter. “So fucking long, I wanted to know if you get fucked as good as you fuck me and you do, you’re so good at getting fucked, the noises you keep making, you’re gonna kill me.”

Oh fuck, oh fuck, Seth tries frantically to remember how to tell Dean to _shut up_ because he likes to talk during sex, when he’s on the other end of it, so of course he likes talking while he’s fucking Seth, and of course it all goes right to Seth’s cock, and he thinks he’s harder than he’s ever been.

“Ngh,” he says, and he hopes that gets his point across.

It doesn’t, or it does and Dean doesn’t care, because he’s still looking at Seth with that expression that’s half smile and half astonishment. He curls a hand around Seth’s dick, and Seth practically whimpers.

“Good,” Dean says, softer. “God, that’s good, isn’t it? You’re fuckin’ stupid gorgeous, all of you, and I get to fuck you, don’t I? I get to take you home and put my mouth and my hands and my cock all over you, and I get to hear how much you love it.”

“Dean,” Seth says, strangled and harsh, his fingers scrabbling again to grab Dean’s shoulder. It feels like there are sparks in his veins, and Dean’s rhythm is still steady, every one of this thrusts deep and hard enough for Seth to feel it in his bones.

“Say my name again, babe,” Dean murmurs. His voice isn’t nearly as steady as his hips, but it’s steady enough that Seth still shivers. “Say it again for me.”

“I—Dean,” Seth says because he can’t say anything else, it’s getting harder to even think of other words, words other than _fuck_ and _Dean_ and _please_ is there, too, hovering on the edges of his consciousness. 

“Mmm, I like the sound of that.” Dean twists his hand in a flick at the end of a stroke on Seth’s cock, and Seth has to bite the inside of his forearm so that he doesn’t shout. “One more time, come on, say my name one more time.”

Seth’s panting, heaving air in and out of his lungs, and he can barely get it out, but he manages, “Dean,” rumbling and raspy and he doesn’t sound anything like himself but he doesn’t feel anything like himself either.

Dean laughs, but it’s not a mocking laugh. He looks surprised at himself, even, and finds Seth’s hand on the duvet, twisting their fingers together, pinning Seth’s hand against the pillow.

“I wanna kiss you,” he says, but the angle’s all wrong, there’s no way he can without stopping, and that’s just not going to happen. Instead, Dean smudges his thumb over the head of Seth’s cock, powers deep on another thrust and Seth almost bites through his lip when he comes, he swears, a sharp pinch of pain the only thing cutting through the waves of _good_.

“Fucking christ,” is all he hears Dean say, and his grip on Seth’s hand tightens enough that it kind of hurts, too, and Dean’s still inside him, screwing him so deep it’ll be a wonder if Seth can stand straight tomorrow, and Seth thinks he can hear Dean’s heart beating in his chest.

Dean very obviously does his best not to collapse on top of Seth, shunting his weight to the side, and it crushes Seth’s arm a little but that’s all right. It’s even nice, in a way, though Dean’s so warm that it’s uncomfortable and Seth’s arm has gone pins and needles.

It takes a few minutes of lying there and breathing before Seth feels at all like he’s retained the ability to speak. By then, the aircon’s doing its job, ghosting cold over Seth’s heated skin and raising goosebumps in its wake.

“Jesus,” Dean mutters, damp lips against Seth’s shoulder. His voice sounds wrecked, and he pushes his face into Seth’s armpit. “Jesus,” he says again.

“Don’t think he had much to do with this,” Seth says. His voice isn’t any better, sounds broken open from the inside. He clears his throat.

Dean snorts a laugh and looks up at Seth. There’s a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead and his eyes are kind of bloodshot and Seth, once again, thinks about telling him. He’s struck with a wave of it, this deep abiding affection for Dean, and he thinks Dean should probably know Seth loves him.

It’s still a little weird to say even in his head, but Dean should know. Seth should tell him.

Not now, though; now would be the worst time, when they’ve just finished fucking. Dean would think it was a joke, or that Seth was just caught up in the moment. Seth doesn’t want that when he tells Dean. He doesn’t want Dean to be able to make excuses or pretend it means something other than it means. He wants Dean to hear it when he says it.

“I’m gross,” Seth mumbles. Now that he’s not in the moment, all the sweat and come and lube feels sticky and disgusting, and he needs to get it all off as soon as possible.

“That’s for sure,” Dean agrees, busy tying off the condom and lobbing it into Seth’s trash can. “Disgusting.”

Instead of letting Seth get up to go shower, though, he flops over Seth’s side and makes himself comfortable. He’s no less sweaty, and it’s _cold_ sweat now, clammy, terrible. Seth whines at him wordlessly, batting at Dean’s arm.

“Okay, okay,” Dean sighs, twisting onto his back instead. Seth squirms out from under him, leans over and kisses him quickly in a sort of apology. Dean grumbles at him, shooing him away, but the annoyance on his face isn’t real.

Seth’s freaked out that he can tell that.

He showers as quickly as he can without sacrificing cleanliness, yanking his drippy hair up into a ponytail. It’ll dry with a stupid kink in it, but for now he just wants it out of his face.

“You want one?” he offers, leaning against the doorway to the bathroom and looking at Dean. He’s still where he was when Seth left him, covered in drying sweat with a splotch or two of come on his stomach from Seth.

Dean hums thoughtfully.

“I’ll rephrase,” says Seth. “Come get a shower. I don’t know how you can even stand that.”

“You’re the fussiest wrestler I’ve ever met,” Dean says, stretching his arms over his head. “It’s all people-stuff. You get covered with other peoples’ sweat every day.”

“I don’t lie around in it,” Seth protests. “I don’t, I take showers when I’m dirty. I don’t think that’s weird.”

“I like smellin’ like you.” Dean shoots Seth a smile over his shoulder, now sat up, feet swung over the side of the bed. 

“Shut up.” Seth rolls his eyes. “You smell like sex.”

“Sex with you.” Dean rolls to his feet easily, sauntering his way over to Seth. “Babe.”

“Don’t—shut up,” Seth says again, dodging it when Dean tries to nudge his sweaty arm against Seth’s. “Shower, now,” he commands.

Dean holds his hands up in a mock truce. “Okay, okay. Touchy. S’your mess.”

He scratches his stomach and come flakes off onto the floor. He keeps his eyes locked with Seth’s the whole time. Asshole.

“Asshole,” Seth tells him. “Take a shower. You hungry?”

“I could eat,” Dean says agreeably. He stretches again, fingertips nearly touching the ceiling. It elongates his body and Seth can’t help but have a look. 

“Pizza?” Seth proposes.

“Don’t put any weird vegetables on it,” Dean warns. He darts in quick as can be for a kiss and then slips past Seth into the bathroom.

Seth shakes his head and heads back out into the main room to get his phone. Maybe he’ll just get peppers on half of it.

\--

On the first, Seth’s expecting the knock on his door. He’s been freaking out just a little bit all morning, because, well, because this is a big deal even if he’s been doing his best to make it seem like he doesn’t think it’s a big deal. They’ve acknowledged, both of them, that they want it to mean something, but they haven’t discussed what that something is. And Seth still hasn’t said the words.

He takes a deep breath and rubs his hands on his thighs before he stands up to get the door. He’s being stupid. Dean and him, they’re good. The guy’s moving in with him, for god’s sake; even if it’s only for a little while, while Dean figures out another promotion to go to, that’s a commitment. Dean doesn’t strike Seth as a commitment _person_ , so this is a big deal. Even if neither of them calls it that, it’s a big deal.

Dean’s in shorts and a t-shirt at the door, one bag hooked over his shoulder. He doesn’t look freaked out, but if he was, Seth doesn’t know if he’d show it on his face.

“Hey,” Dean says. He jerks his head to the side, toward the hotel room he’s been staying in. “Mind helping me out? I don’t keep much with me, but, you know. Could use a hand.”

“Yeah, of course.” Seth grabs his keycard from the table next to the door and looks at it thoughtfully while he closes the door behind him. “Have to get you one of these,” he comments.

“I’d appreciate being able to go outside once in a while,” says Dean, wry and light. He flaps his own keycard at Seth. “I gotta return this one by noon.”

He uses it to get into his room, or his old room, at this point. The light flashes green to let them enter. It’s different already from the last time Seth saw it, a week or two ago. No clothes strewn across the floor or draped on chairs, and the bed’s made. 

It’s been a while since he’s been over here, actually. He thinks in some ways they’ve been practicing for being around each other constantly, because Dean’s been over at Seth’s place more than he’s been at his own, Seth thinks.

“You still sure about this?” Dean asks. He’s leaning on a suitcase, plain black with a silver handle. Standard, efficient. Exactly what Seth would expect from him. It makes him smile.

“What do you mean?” asks Seth.

Dean’s watching him very carefully. “I’m not gonna be pissed or anything if you change your mind. You know that, right? I got contacts. I can figure something else out.”

“Do you want to figure something else out?” Seth counters. His arms are folded across his chest, and he knows it’s defensive posturing, but Dean picked a pretty stupid time to have second thoughts if that’s what this is.

Dean’s face contorts a little, into something Seth can’t quite catch, before it’s back to normal. “No,” he says after a moment, quietly. “I don’t.”

“Then don’t be stupid.” Seth lets out the air he’d been holding in. “Like I’m going to let someone live with me if I don’t want them to. I know you think I’m kind of a pushover, but give me a little credit here, man.”

“I don’t think you’re a pushover,” Dean says. It doesn’t sound like a placation, not that Dean’s the placating type. “Really,” he insists. “You’re just, like, a nice person, I guess. A real nice person, not like all those fuckers in the back who make nice with management for screen time.”

“Uh, thanks?” Seth guesses that’s a compliment.

“Yeah, whatever,” mumbles Dean. “I just meant, you know, I don’t want you to feel like you have to, whatever, take pity on me.”

“Is that what you think this is?” Seth asks, tilting his head. There’s a strange rushing feeling in his ears, kind of like when he’s been knocked for a loop in a match. “You think this is me taking pity on you?”

“I didn’t say that,” Dean says. He’s looking at Seth oddly. Seth has no idea what the expression on his face is. “I said I didn’t want you to feel like you had to.”

Seth licks his lips. They’re really dry. “Dean,” he says. He almost doesn’t recognize his own voice.

“What?” Dean says. He’s still frowning at Seth.

Seth has to lick his lips again, and he swallows. “You know I’m like, in love with you, right?”

Time might actually stand still. For a second right after Seth says it, his brain tells him that the best thing to do right now would be to run for the door, but he doesn’t. He stands his ground.

Dean’s taken a step back, as though Seth’s words were a physical force. He’s not frowning anymore, his eyes wider than usual and his mouth hanging open a little.

“What?” he says faintly.

“It can’t be that shocking,” Seth snaps, and then makes an effort to calm down. It’s not Dean’s fault he’s surprised, or upset, or whatever he is. “Sorry. Forget I said anything. It’s not pity, just, pretend I stopped talking after that.”

“Definitely not.” Dean coughs, rubbing his hand across his face. “You’re, you’re, with me?”

“With you,” says Seth. His fingers are tapping his forearm. He feels more jittery than he ever has. “It doesn’t have to be a thing.”

“What if I want it to be a thing?” says Dean immediately, over the tail end of Seth’s sentence.

“Do you?” Seth replies. This feels like a standoff, like they’re playing relationship ping-pong. “Can we just, can we just talk about it? For once? Can we do that?”

Dean shrugs, and it’s a delicate thing. Seth can see all the bones in his shoulders moving. “I’m staying in Florida for you,” he says. It hangs there between them, soft and vulnerable like Dean never lets himself be. “I don’t stay places for people. But I’m staying here. For you.”

That should be enough. Seth shouldn’t push, because if Dean wanted to say it back, he would, and because Seth knows Dean, and he knows this is hard for him. He’s said it, now, and that should be enough. It shouldn’t be about what he wants.

But damn it, Seth wants to be selfish about this. He wants Dean to say it back.

“Why?” he asks. Demands, really. He takes a step forward and then a step back. 

“Because,” Dean says. He’s frowning again, but it’s not at Seth. “Because I, fuck you, Seth, you know why.”

“Then say it,” says Seth. “Just say it. What’s gonna happen? What’s gonna happen, if you just say it?”

“I don’t know.” It comes out aggressive, Dean’s hands clenching into fists and then relaxing again. “I don’t know, I just, it’s hard. For me.”

“You think it wasn’t hard for me?” Seth gestures wildly with his hands. 

“Seth—“

“You knew,” Seth interrupts. “You knew, we both knew, I know we both knew. This isn’t something I’m just throwing out there out of nowhere, we’ve been dating— _fucking dating_ —“ he says more loudly when Dean winces a little, “—for months. I asked you to _move in_ with me. I’m sorry if this is making it hard for you to be an emotionless asshole, but it was hard for me, too.”

Seth stops, and breathes. He shoves a hand through his hair. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t, I didn’t mean for that to come out like—“

“I love you.”

It’s quiet, so quiet that Seth almost doesn’t hear it, and Dean sounds like he’s been chewing on rocks, his voice half-gone. But it’s there.

Dean clears his throat, and nods. “Okay?” he says. “We’re good?”

“Yeah, we’re good.” Seth kind of can’t feel his legs, but it’s a good numb. “I’ll, uh. We should.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean is nibbling on his thumbnail now, still looking at Seth. “We should. Gotta be out by noon.”

“Is this everything?” Seth asks, bobbing his head at the corner, where there are various suitcases. “Travel kind of light, don’t you?”

“When you move around a lot, you tend to only carry what’s important.” Dean shrugs again. “I got everything I need here.”

“Okay, then.” Seth rolls his shoulders, and then grabs one of the bags on the ground. “We’d better get moving.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean reaches for the handle of another, only it’s the same one Seth’s reaching for, and their hands meet like a cliché. Dean doesn’t move his hand, and Seth doesn’t move his, either.

“Out by noon, right?” Seth checks.

Dean hums an affirmative. “It’s like, what, ten-thirty? Eleven?”

“Something like that.” He can feel the muscles of Dean’s hand flex underneath his palm. Dean’s mouth is twitching in a smile.

“Wanna go out with a bang?” he suggests. “Make the most of the time left on the room?”

“I think that’s one of the better ideas you’ve had,” Seth says, turning his hand over to grip Dean’s and yank him closer. “Maybe even the best.”

“You know me.” Dean’s lips touch to Seth’s jaw. “I’m full of good ideas.”

“You’ll be full of somethin’,” Seth says, and he pushes Dean onto the bed while he’s laughing too hard to put up much of a show of resistance.

\--

If asked, before, Seth wouldn’t have believed that Dean would make a very good roommate. It’s not that he’d anticipated it being awful – Seth’s a very logical person, and he’d recognized that having a person you’re in a relationship with nearby at almost all times is convenient, if occasionally he’d worried it’d be stifling. But Dean’s good about that. Dean knows when to back off and take a walk, leave Seth to his business.

Seth has NXT and title defenses and it’s hectic, and there’s no way he’d have time to commit to somebody, normally. But Dean’s there when he gets back from a day of media, he’s there when Seth gets home from the show, and he’s there before Seth leaves in the morning.

He doesn’t know what Dean gets up to when Seth isn’t at home. Sometimes, actually, he’s gone when Seth gets back from what he’s doing, though it’s never long after when the quiet _beep_ of the door unlocking signals his return.

“Looking at other promotions,” Dean says when Seth asks him about it three weeks in, shrugging. “I told you I’ve been getting calls, so I thought I’d check some of them out.”

“Anything good?” Seth says, leaning around the bathroom door to look at Dean where he’s sitting on the bed flipping mindlessly through the TV channels. 

Dean wrinkles his nose and shrugs again. “Not really anything like WWE, is there?” he asks. “Everything else seems kinda small potatoes when you’ve been here.”

“Maybe they’ll bring you back,” Seth says, muffled around his mouthful of toothpaste. “They brought Bryan back, in 2010.”

He leans against the door frame and watches Dean frown.

“I’m not exactly Daniel Bryan,” he says doubtfully. “Guys like him get second chances. Guys like me, not so much.”

Seth rolls his eyes and leans back into the bathroom to spit. “You’re not a criminal or something. Bryan choked out someone who wasn’t even a wrestler. You gave Regal a concussion during a sanctioned match. I just wouldn’t say it’s an impossibility, you know? You’re a big draw, and a lot of people in the company were real big on you.”

Dean makes a noncommittal sound. “Well, I can’t just sit on my ass until they decide to do that, either way. Don’t get me wrong, I’m loving not having to update my Twitter account, but I’m losing my mind not being in a ring.”

“Yeah. I get it.” Seth swipes his wrist across his mouth before he makes his way back into the main room. “Nothing looks good anywhere else, though?”

“I’ll figure something out,” Dean says. “There were a few that weren’t too bad, couple miles south of here. I’ll probably check those out more this week, look at the facilities.”

“Okay, yeah, you should do that.” Seth stretches out up at the head of the bed. “Let me know if anything seems like a winner.” He bats at Dean’s leg. “What’re we watching?”

“Fuck if I know.” Dean’s squinting at the television, where some cartoon’s playing. “Anything post like 1997 is past my time.”

It continues on more or less like that. Dean’s exemplary to live with, actually. All the roommates Seth’s ever had have either always been bringing girls home to fuck at all hours of the morning or they were strangers he happened to live with. Dean’s neither of those. 

Obviously he never brings a girl home to fuck, and they’re about as far from strangers as you can be, except they’re still learning about each other. They know the important things, but sometimes they’ll stay up until four in the morning talking about being teenagers or something, when Seth has an early morning the next day.

Dean takes great delight in being Seth’s alarm clock, either bashing him in the face with a pillow or sitting on his bladder until Seth, cursing and swinging fists, opens his bleary eyes to get out of bed.

 _”I’ll piss on you!”_ is never much of a deterrent, because Dean just says, _”Kinky,”_ with apparent delight and keeps right on sitting there until Seth groans awake.

All in all, though, it’s good. There’s always something to talk about, always something both of them are interested in, and considering how they started out, the bitterest of enemies, Seth’s surprised they actually have as much in common as they do.

In some ways, he’s really disappointed they never got to see how they would’ve worked together as a team. He’s trying not to rule it out, because there’s always a chance that the WWE will realize their mistake and hire Dean back, but as the days and weeks go by, it seems more and more bleak.

It’s October by the time anything changes, and even then, it’s not exactly the kind of change Seth’s expecting. Dean’s still looking around the area for promotions to join, but none of them feel right, from what he says.

“I just hate feeling like I’m moving backward,” he mutters one night, jerking his shirt off over his head. It’s late, they’re both tired, and nothing Seth could say would help anyway. He’s kind of exactly where Dean wants to be, champion still, top tier talent in NXT, and there’s been rumors – even though he does his best not to pay attention to rumors – that he might be getting called up soon.

It’s where Dean should be, too. Seth has no doubts about that; if Dean was still with the company, he’d either be called up already or he’d be in Seth’s position, he’s too good not to be.

“That can’t just be it, right?” Dean asks. He’s pacing back and forth like a caged animal. “I didn’t train, I didn’t, I’m the _best_ , better than the best, that can’t be all.”

His shoulders look so tight it must hurt, and he’s yanking at the button of his jeans so hard Seth’s worried he’ll just rip it off.

“I’m taking a shower,” Dean mutters. He flaps a hand at Seth. “It’s not – It’s not _you_ , okay, I just—“

“Don’t worry about it,” Seth assures. “I get it, don’t worry about it. Go, you’ll feel better after.”

Dean closes the door behind him, their sort of silent signal to keep out, not that Seth would’ve wanted to go in anyway. He knows when Dean’s in the mood and when he’s not. He’s very obviously not in the mood now.

Seth’s phone vibrates on the side table a few minutes after he hears the water start, and he frowns. It keeps vibrating, so it’s a call and not a text, but it’s late enough that common courtesy would make someone think twice about calling. And he doesn’t recognize the number when he checks the screen.

Still, it could be work-related, so he answers it.

“Hello?” he asks.

“Yes, hello, is this Seth Rollins?” Holy shit, the voice sounds so familiar, _so_ familiar, but it’s hovering on the edge of Seth’s mind and he just can’t quite place it.

“Yes, it is. May I ask who’s calling?” he says. God, whose voice is that? He _knows_ this.

“Of course, Mr. Rollins, of course. My name is Paul Heyman.”

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, of course it is. Seth has no idea how he managed to forget whose voice that is. Paul Heyman’s voice is really distinctive, but then again, he wasn’t exactly expecting the man to call him in the middle of the night. Maybe he’ll forgive himself for not being on the ball.

“Oh, uh. Hi?” he says. What’s the etiquette for this?

Heyman laughs on the other end of the phone. “My apologies for calling so late, Mr. Rollins. As you might guess, I’m a very busy man.”

“Yeah, yeah, I could’ve guessed that.” Seth’s eyes dart to the closed bathroom door. “Can I ask why you’re calling me at all, though?”

“Yes, yes. I’m sure a good employee like yourself keeps up to date with the happenings on the main roster, so I won’t insult your intelligence by giving you all the unnecessary details. My client, CM Punk, as I recall, you participated in a tag team match with him not too long ago, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, back at the end of August,” Seth says. That was a good match. It had felt good to have the perceived approval of someone he’s looked up to for a long time. “He’s a good guy.”

“He _is_.” Heyman sounds both pleased and smug, or maybe that’s just how he sounds most of the time. “He is a good guy, and I thought you would recognize that. You’ve seen, I suppose, how he has been being treated? Forced to face opponents he’s already defeated, in matches with terrible, unfair stipulations designed to work in his opponent’s favor?”

“Uh-huh,” says Seth, crossing one ankle over the other. “I thought that was mostly ‘cause AJ was GM, though. Now that she’s resigned, shouldn’t things get better?”

“One can only hope, Mr. Rollins,” Heyman laments. Seth thinks about telling him to call him Seth, but doubts Heyman’s the type to be so informal with an acquaintance. “But I am the type of man who likes to have a backup plan or two. Just in case, you understand.”

“Right, of course. Smart,” Seth praises. He gets the feeling Heyman’s the type of person he wants to stay on the good side of.

He can almost hear the way Heyman puffs up on the other end. “Yes, yes. And I knew, Mr. Rollins, that you and my client, my _best friend_ had good history with one another. And so I wanted to ask you: If it became necessary, can I call on you for help?”

Seth frowns. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he admits. “Or how I could help. I’m only in developmental, I don’t have a main roster contract.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” Heyman dismisses. “I have a very far reach within this company, whether the McMahon family like it or not. A contract for the main roster would be simple to obtain, especially for a man of your own talent. A few words in the right ears and I’ll have them thinking it was their idea to bring you up.”

Seth worries his lower lip, thinking. He’s not an idiot, he knows that there’s no way someone like Paul Heyman offers him a way onto the main roster without there being some catches. Chances are if he’s called on to ‘help’ CM Punk, it’s going to mean getting involved in a match, foul play of some sort.

But it’s a main roster spot. It’s what he’s been working toward all his life. Punk’s a good guy, even if Seth doesn’t agree with everything the man says, and it’s a main roster spot to make sure the title stays on him.

And it _is_ kind of unfair that Punk keeps having to face people he’s already defeated.

“What did you mean by that, ‘call on me for help’?” he asks. “What kind of thing would that involve?”

“Oh, nothing, yet,” Heyman says. “I have the utmost faith in our WWE champion. I simply intend to have a few fail-safes in place. Security measures, you understand. You won’t need to do anything just yet. Go about your daily life, defend that shiny title of yours, and I will give you another call if you’re needed.”

The words he’s using are interesting. ‘Needed.’ ‘Necessary.’ Neither really explains anything, tells him what he’d be expected to do, and yet, he thinks he knows already. And it’s a main roster spot.

“Okay,” says Seth. “Yeah, okay, just let me know. I’ll be around.”

“Excellent.” Heyman does indeed sound delighted. “I knew you would make the right decision here, Mr. Rollins. I assume this is the correct number when I need to contact you again?”

“It’s the easiest way to get ahold of me, yes.” The water’s still going in the bathroom. Seth really hopes Dean’s not trying to drown himself. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Heyman.”

“Oh, the pleasure was all mine,” says Heyman. “Have a nice night, Mr. Rollins.”

There’s a click as the call ends. Seth keeps the phone to his ear for another few seconds, then tosses it onto the bed. It feels quite a bit like he’s just signed a deal with the devil, only he hasn’t signed anything and he doesn’t think the devil has a ponytail. He still feels quite a bit unsavory.

He’s built a presence in NXT on the back of being a pretty good guy. He knows some of the guys in the back put on their personas like masks, but that’s not him. 

Someone like Dean would be infinitely more suited to this kind of backroom deal, and Seth’s eyes flick to the bathroom door once again. Dean would know how to talk to Paul Heyman. Dean would know exactly what to say, and how to behave, and he wouldn’t think twice about taking this deal if it means a spot on the main show.

Seth could stand to be a little more like Dean, at least in this. Sometimes you’ve got to break some eggs to make an omelet, or however the saying goes. If he’s got to interfere in a match or two, keep the title on CM Punk to get Paul Heyman to give him that contract, then that’s exactly what he’ll do.

It’s all sacrifice, in the end. And he’s sacrificed more for less.

\--

Dean’s been being weird. At first Seth thought it was just him imagining things, that he was making up problems that weren’t there, because it’s been going _so well_. Maybe in Seth’s brain, their living situation is going too well, and he feels the need to make up issues that aren’t there.

Not to mention he’s still thinking about that phone call from Paul Heyman. He has no doubt that could be coloring his judgment – he feels a little like he’s betraying Dean by not telling him about it, so his brain makes up a way that Dean could be holding back with him, too. To make it less of a completely fucking dick move to not tell Dean about the offer.

He’s not sure why he hasn’t told Dean, other than it seeming like he’s bragging about having something Dean doesn’t. He’ll have to tell him eventually, if he’s going to be traveling around the country. There’d be no way to keep up the front then. Even so, he just can’t figure out how to tell Dean that he might be on his way up.

Seth might be overreaching, anyway. Heyman had said that he’d get in touch with Seth again if Seth was _needed_ and as far as he can tell, he’s not needed. Punk’s a pretty good champion. You don’t stay champion almost a year without being good at what you do.

And, of course, he’s always been good at getting his way. For all that Punk portrays himself as the underdog, and he is, size-wise, the man’s tactical ability is beyond almost every other wrestler Seth’s met.

Dean could give him a run for his money. And now he’s thinking about Dean again.

But Dean _is_ acting weird, and Seth doesn’t think it’s all his imagination. He’s quieter, and some of that could be down to still not settling on another promotion but for some reason Seth’s still suspicious. Of what, he’s not sure. He just knows that Dean acting weird never really turns out right for him. He’s half-wondering if he should expect an attack from behind one of the nights he’s defending his title on the show, but it doesn’t happen, and Dean remains, as far as Seth knows, out of the company.

And now he knows he’s being stupidly suspicious. Now he’s trying to convince himself that just because he’s keeping secrets, Dean must be, too. He should tell him.

Unless there’s nothing to tell. If there’s nothing to tell, it would just make Dean feel terrible for no reason, and Seth doesn’t want to do that. He’ll wait. If it turns out that Heyman needs him, and gets into contact with him again, then maybe he’ll tell Dean. He’ll tell Dean when Dean needs to know. He just hates keeping a secret like this, even if it turns out to be nothing.

He doesn’t like feeling as though he’s not being honest with Dean. They’ve come so far, and he’s seen how that ends up. Whenever they’re not communicating, bullshit happens. Seth doesn’t want bullshit to happen, but he’s not sure what else to do.

“Everything okay with you?” Dean asks him, once Seth gets back from doing NXT. It’s the second he gets in the door, and he’s not quite expecting it, so he pauses before he answers, and Dean’s eyes narrow.

“Yeah, of course,” Seth says, dropping his bag on the floor. “What’d not be okay?”

“You tell me.” Dean is sitting cross-legged on the bed, back against the headboard with a laptop balanced precariously on his thighs. 

“Uh, nothing?” Seth guesses. “Isn’t that what I just said?”

Dean doesn’t say anything for a second, then shuts his computer. Seth isn’t sure he even knows how to do anything on it other than look up YouTube videos of Christmas songs and check his email.

“You’d tell me if there was?” Dean checks, then leans down to shove the laptop back into its bag. “If there was anything going on with you that I should know. That’d change things. You’d tell me?”

Seth frowns at him. Has Dean caught wind somehow? Has Seth given himself away? He should just tell him but there’s something stopping him still, whether it’s the fear that Dean will use it as a reason they shouldn’t be together anymore or just not wanting Dean to be jealous of Seth’s perceived success.

“Of course I would,” Seth finally says. It’s not even all a lie. If it happens, if it ends up that this changes things, he’ll tell Dean. Other than that, it doesn’t matter. It’s a non-issue. A moot point. “If there was something you needed to know, I’d tell you. You know I would.”

That doesn’t seem to make Dean feel any better. He tucks his lips into his mouth and nods, unfolding his legs. “Shower at the arena?” he asks, seemingly out of nowhere.

“Uh, yeah,” Seth answers, looking down at himself for no reason. He knows what he looks like. 

“C’mere then,” Dean insists. He shuffles over to the side to make room. “C’mere,” he repeats before Seth even has a chance to move. It makes him remember before, what seems like forever ago, when Dean would say that when Seth was already so close that they were sharing air. The memory makes him smile.

“Okay.” Seth doesn’t even bother to move his bag from where he dropped it in the doorway, instead slipping off his shoes and kneeing onto the bed. Dean yanks him down by his arm and Seth almost faceplants, only managing not to by sheer force of will. Dean’s arm is warm, especially after Seth’s been out in the late October chill with damp hair. Bad choice on his part, but Dean’s warm enough that it doesn’t matter for long.

“Jesus Christ, you’re freezing,” Dean mutters, rubbing his hand up and down Seth’s arm. “Wear a fuckin’ jacket or something, it’s practically winter.”

“We live in Florida,” Seth points out. “Practically winter doesn’t mean much. I’m from Iowa; I’m cold-blooded.”

“I’m from Ohio, and I say wear a damn jacket,” Dean counters. Well, that’s told him.

“Probably will, once it’s November.” Seth is surprised by a yawn that he tucks into Dean’s shoulder automatically. They’re not the most – they don’t sit on park benches and hold hands or anything; they don’t really do a lot of unnecessary physical intimacy. Seth doesn’t mind. As far as he can tell, Dean doesn’t really like it when anybody touches him if he’s not fighting or fucking, so that he lets Seth touch him apart from either of those things is kind of a privilege, and Seth recognizes that.

Dean doesn’t reference Seth’s lapse, though, if that’s what it was. He just snorts, and keeps rubbing Seth’s arm in slow, steady motions. The repetitive movement isn’t making him any less tired, either. Between training, and media, and the show, and worrying about Dean, he hasn’t gotten much sleep lately.

“I don’t like it when people I trust lie to me,” Dean says. It sounds casual as anything but it leeches most of the fatigue from Seth’s mind.

“What?” he asks, keeping his head where it is. Dean’s body language hasn’t changed any and it’s sending Seth mixed signals.

“You heard me,” Dean says. “I don’t like that. I don’t appreciate it. But I gotta figure if you’re doing it, you’ve got a hell of a reason to be.”

“Dean,” Seth says. He has no idea how he’s planning on continuing that sentence, but it doesn’t matter, because Dean legitimately _shushes_ him, and Seth’s so taken aback that he falls silent.

“Don’t,” says Dean. “Don’t, don’t make me mad and say you weren’t lying, don’t insult me by acting like I don’t know you well enough to know when you’re telling the truth and when you’re lying to my face.”

Seth doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even know why he tried. Dean’s been being weird and he could tell, so why did he think that Dean wouldn’t be able to tell Seth’s not being totally honest with him?

“It’s okay,” says Dean when Seth remains silent. “I mean, not really, but it is. I just don’t like it when you lie to me, man. I hate that more than anything. Whatever it is, I don’t care; everyone’s allowed to have secrets. I won’t ask you about it again, just don’t lie to me. Okay? Don’t lie to me, don’t do that.”

“Okay, I won’t,” Seth says. Dean hasn’t moved away or anything but it still feels like there’s this distance there that wasn’t there before. He could be imagining it but he doesn’t think he is. “I won’t, Dean.”

“Good, so we’re clear.” Dean pats the side of Seth’s neck. “I got an offer yesterday and I’m thinking about taking it,” he says, changing the subject. Seth’s grateful for that.

“Yeah, really?” Seth asks. He clears his throat and tips his head back to rest against Dean’s forearm rather than his shoulder. The room’s really cold, and he’s thinking about heading over to turn down the aircon. “Is it nearby?”

“You could say that,” says Dean. Slightly evasive, but Seth doesn’t really have room to talk. “Nothing concrete, yet. I’m still looking but I think I might take it. I don’t know. Better than sitting on my ass doing nothing, isn’t it?”

“I think you should take it,” Seth says after a minute.

“Really?” Dean asks. He’s looking at Seth again, a slight frown on his face. “You think so?”

“Yeah, of course. You have to do what’s best for you.”

“Huh.” Dean’s mouth curls up at the corner. “Guess I thought you’d have more of a problem with it.”

“Why would I have a problem with it?” asks Seth. It’s his turn to frown. “You’ve been a miserable little asshole the past two months. You’re happier when you’re kicking the shit out of people.”

Dean is sulking at him. “I’m not a miserable little asshole. I’m happy as a clam, thanks.”

“I said happier,” Seth says. “And you are, don’t pretend you’re not. You’ve been wanting to get back into a ring so badly it hurts to look at you.”

“You’re all about the compliments today, aren’t you?” asks Dean dryly. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess. Sparring with you is awesome and stuff, but I’d kill to get back into an actual ring.”

“So, give it a shot,” Seth reasons. “I know you said anywhere other than WWE would feel like a step down, but doing nothing’s like sitting at the bottom of the stairs.”

Dean wrinkles his nose. “Ever thought about being a motivational speaker?”

“I think I’ll leave that to Dallas.” Seth nudges Dean’s arm. “I’m serious, though. Whatever it is, if it feels good to you, don’t say no just because it’s not the big time. You’re, what, 26? This isn’t the end of the line.”

“Please shut up,” Dean mumbles. “I’m not a pet project, you don’t have to give me a pep talk.”

“Fine, fine,” Seth laughs. “I just think it’d be a waste if you didn’t take the opportunity. Everyone wants you. Everyone fucking loves you, you’re one of the best wrestlers on the scene right now. So get back on the horse.”

“Get back on the horse,” Dean repeats. “Okay. Yeah, okay. I’m, uh, I’m supposed to wait for a call anyway, so I’ll, when he calls back I’ll tell him I’ve accepted his offer.”

“Good.” Seth leans in for a kiss and Dean grants it to him, quick and easy. “That’s really good. Are you, uh, how close is it, exactly?”

He doesn’t want to ask outright if Dean’s leaving, but he’ll want to know, ahead of time. It’s not like he thinks their living situation is the only thing keeping them together – they’d managed for a long while before that – but he just, he wants to know. To prepare himself.

“Far as I know, I’m still all yours.” Dean offers him a half-smile. “Long as you’ll still have me.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Seth mutters, pressing his words into the side of Dean’s neck. Dean shivers. Seth’s tiredness seems very far away all of a sudden. “Course I will.”

“Mm.” Dean’s fingers walk up Seth’s neck, twining in his hair and holding him where he is. “Whatever happens, happens, right?” he murmurs.

“Stop talking,” Seth requests, twisting a little to press against Dean’s side. “I’m seducing you.”

“Oh, is that what you were doing?” Seth can feel the way Dean’s expression changes into something more amused. “Sorry, don’t let me stop you.”

Seth bites his neck. Dean shuts up fairly quickly after that.

\--

Because Seth watches the Hell in a Cell pay-per-view, he’s half expecting a call from Paul Heyman in the next week or two, but he doesn’t. There’s radio silence on Heyman’s end until the week before Survivor Series. It’s very late, kind of Heyman’s _thing_ , Seth’s noticed, on Monday night. Dean’s out getting food when Seth’s phone rings, the number flashing on the display one he only vaguely recognizes. 

“Hello, this is Seth,” he answers, absently nibbling on the corner of the protein bar he’s using as a snack until Dean gets back.

“Mr. Rollins,” says Paul Heyman’s voice, crisp and harried. “If I might have a word?”

Seth hums, dropping the bar onto his nightstand and nodding even though obviously Heyman can’t see him. “Yeah, of course. This have anything to do with the show tonight?”

“You could say that.” Heyman’s voice sours. “It’s become clear to me the direction I need to take in order to make sure that the match at Survivor Series is a fair fight.”

“Is that so?” Seth’s fingers drum on his knee. “What direction might that be?”

“There is no advantage for the champion in a triple threat match,” Heyman states. “My client, my _best friend_ has already defeated both John Cena and Ryback, multiple times. To suggest that he face both of them at once is frankly ludicrous.”

“You don’t have to convince me,” Seth admits. There’s a soft beep from the door and Seth’s eyes are drawn there. He has two seconds to decide whether to keep pretending like nothing’s going on or to let Dean in on what he’s been hiding. “I, uh, pardon my language, I think it’s bullshit.”

Heyman laughs softly in his ear and Dean opens the door with a bag in his hand, the smell of takeout filling the room. 

“I got your weird steamed vegetables,” he announces, nudging the door closed with his hip. Only when he turns around does he note that Seth’s on the phone, and he makes a show of zipping his lips with his free hand.

“Well, I appreciate your candor. What are your plans for November 18th, Mr. Rollins?” asks Heyman, tinny in Seth’s ear, and he looks at Dean, mulling over the right way to answer this.

“Don’t have any, unless you want to give me some,” he says. Dean raises his eyebrows, plopping the bag onto the bed as he takes off his jacket to toss over the back of a chair.

“Good answer. I’ve put things in motion, started to arrange what I need to in order to make sure that title stays where it should: around CM Punk’s waist. As of Saturday morning, you will be a full-fledged member of the WWE roster,” says Heyman. “I trust that you will repay this favor that I’m doing you by doing me a favor in return.”

Seth’s head is spinning. He’ll be on the main roster by Saturday. Less than a week. “What do you need me to do?” he asks slowly. 

“Be in Indianapolis on Sunday. I’ll arrange for your travel information to be emailed to you by tomorrow afternoon.” This is all moving so quickly but Seth can hardly ask for Heyman to slow down and give him a couple minutes to process everything. “You’ll meet your partners Saturday night, so that you can plan for Sunday’s pay-per-view.”

“Partners?” Seth blurts. He has partners in this endeavor? He supposes that makes sense, if he’s supposed to attack John Cena or Ryback or both. He’s good, but both of those guys have something like forty pounds on him.

“Your partners,” Heyman confirms. “Two of them. I’m hardly going to send you in as reinforcement all on your own, Mr. Rollins. Give me a little credit here.”

“Of course, of course,” Seth murmurs. “My apologies.”

Dean’s looking at him very curiously now. When Seth glances over at him, he mouths, _who is it?_ and holds his hand to the side of his face in an imitation of a phone. Seth holds up a placating finger.

“You’ll meet them upon your arrival. And you’ll be able to get along with both of your new partners, won’t you?” The tone in Heyman’s voice says very clearly that if Seth can’t, he’ll be replaced.

“Of course,” says Seth. “I’m very, uh, easy to get along with.” God, he hopes it’s not someone he hates. He really, really hopes it’s not someone he hates.

“Good. They’re both developmental, or, well, former developmental talent, like yourself.” Seth’s stomach burbles. _Former developmental talent_. There’s so many people that could be, but Dean’s been weird lately, and, and, and. And it’s probably not Dean. But he can hope. “I’m trusting that you’ll ensure this all goes very smoothly. I’m a powerful man with powerful contacts in this business,” Heyman says, his voice suddenly much more serious than it had been. “You’re a very smart man. I’m sure you know better than to screw this up.”

“I won’t let you down,” Seth promises. He’s not going to ruin his opportunity to climb a ladder he’s wanted to climb since he knew what a suplex was. “When will I find out the details of what I’m expected to do?”

To anybody (Dean) who can only hear his side of the conversation, he must sound like somebody planning a murder.

“I’ll be by with the plan once you three have settled in for an hour or two,” Heyman replies. His voice grows faint at the end of his sentence, as though he’s moved his face away from the phone for a moment. “I’m afraid that’s all the time we have right now, Mr. Rollins. I look forward to completing this business transaction with you.”

God, the man’s a good talker. So smooth and slick, he could probably sell anything to anybody. And maybe Seth’s making a mistake, taking any kind of offer from him, but… he wants this. He wants this more than anything.

He looks at Dean when he responds, to see if there’s any kind of tell at all there. “The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Heyman.”

Dean’s eyes widen and then narrow, calculating, and he shoves the food out of the way to sit down on the bed as Seth hangs up the phone. There’s a long, tense silence, and then Dean says, “Paul Heyman?” almost casually.

“No, George Heyman,” Seth replies before he can think better of it. He deserves the annoyed look Dean levels at him. “Yeah. Yeah, Paul Heyman.”

Dean doesn’t say anything for a minute, staring at the brown paper of the takeout bag. “Huh,” he finally says. His lips are sort of twitching, as far as Seth can tell, though he can’t tell much with Dean’s face tipped down like it is.

“What does _huh_ mean?” Seth asks, but he’s cut off by the sound of Dean’s phone ringing from his pocket.

Dean pulls it out like they’re not mid-conversation, and yeah, yeah, his lips are twitching. Seth leans forward, trying to be less hopeful than he is and not succeeding.

“Hey,” Dean says. He waits and Seth can hear the faint sound of someone speaking on the other end, but he can’t distinguish anything else about their voice. “Yeah, actually, I _have_ considered the offer you made. It was a very generous offer.”

Seth is going to tear his hair out. The timing, Dean’s expression, it’s all too coincidental to actually be coincidental. He nearly puts a knee in the food trying to edge closer to hear more of the conversation.

“Right,” Dean says, and then there’s another long pause. “No, I totally agree, it’s a travesty. Guy deserves better than that. Injustice is running rampant in this company, you know.”

He’s smiling, no doubts about it, watching Seth get more and more unnerved, bouncing where he is on the bed.

“Of course. Yeah,” Dean says. There’s another pause. If this is what Dean dealt with while Seth was on the phone, he’ll have to apologize. This is torture. “I’ll be there.” Yet another pause. “No, not a problem at all. See you then, Paul.”

Seth almost falls off of the bed. He catches himself on Dean’s shoulder and he’s aware his mouth is hanging open, but only vaguely.

“ _That’s_ the offer you were thinking about taking?” he asks, his hand still on Dean’s shoulder. Dean looks unbearably smug.

“I had to think about it; it’s a pretty big decision—ow!” Dean exclaims, fending off Seth’s next punch to his arm. “What the fuck, you didn’t tell me, either!”

“I don’t care!” Seth’s feeling annoyed and happy and anxious and happy again. “Seriously? You’re serious? You’re really – we’re going to be on a team together? On the main roster? You’re serious?”

“Gag me,” Dean mutters, rolling his eyes. He’s still smiling, though, so he can’t fool Seth. “Yeah, I guess. Us and another guy,” he reminds Seth. “Who I’m not sleeping with, so I have no idea who it could be.”

“I should’ve known,” Seth says. He shakes his head. “I so should’ve known. I told you everybody in the company loves you.”

“And I told you I knew you were lying about there not being anything you needed to tell me.” Dean reaches over to grab the food before it takes a tumble onto the floor. “So we’re even.”

“I didn’t know if there was anything to tell,” Seth says. “For all I knew, he wasn’t ever going to call back. Or Punk wouldn’t need the outside help. He’s good at what he does.”

“Being good at what you do doesn’t mean much when the deck’s stacked against you,” Dean points out. “Doesn’t really matter, anyway. It’s a way onto Raw.”

“Yeah,” Seth says, dipping his hand into the bag for his food. “I just, I’d like to think that even if it’s not, maybe we’re doing something decent.”

“Whatever floats your boat, princess,” Dean laughs. He steals a piece of chicken from Seth. “You’re so noble sometimes I wonder how the hell you like me so much.”

“You got a nice ass,” Seth mutters around his forkful of broccoli. Dean is kind enough to move his food out of the way before he pushes Seth off the bed.

\--

The trip to Indiana is less of a hassle than Seth was expecting. His travel information from Heyman had included a plane ticket, as well as a hotel room once he lands. He has to assume that their flights are staggered, as Dean's is in the morning and Seth’s is in the afternoon, but they still don’t know who the third man is.

“It could be a woman,” Dean muses. They’re both in the hotel room that Heyman’s booked for them, and there’s a connecting door which (they checked) opens into a single room. Three beds, two rooms. It’s all very mysterious. “It’s probably not, but it could be.”

“It’s probably somebody we hate,” Seth mumbles, sat on the edge of the bed farthest from the door. Dean had bagsied the other one. “That’s why Heyman was so insistent I had to get along with all my teammates.”

Dean snorts. “Uh, he was probably talking about me, considering our history?” He flicks the corner of a room service menu. “Man, this room’s nicer than I expected. He’s not really known for splurging.”

“How are you not nervous?” Seth demands to know. “I’m going out of my mind here.”

“I don’t really got much to lose,” Dean reasons. He folds his arms over his chest. “I didn’t have a contract before and if something goes wrong, I’ll be the same as I was, nothing more, nothing less. You’re a little different.”

“You think?” Seth mutters, pushing a hand through his hair. “What if it’s Corey Graves? Or, I don’t know. Someone else who’s an idiot.”

“We beat him up and steal his lunch money.” Dean sighs, settling down on the other bed, across from Seth. “Calm down. It’s gonna be fine. Whoever it is, we’ll work with them tomorrow night and then if we don’t wanna, we don’t ever have to work with ‘em again.”

“Right.” Seth rubs his hands on his thighs. He’s more nervous than he should be, maybe. But he is risking a lot, here. Yeah, he’s got a main event contract, but in NXT, he’s at the top of the pack. He’s the champion. He’s inevitably going to be brought up, anyway. Where Dean has nothing to lose, Seth has close to everything to lose in this, if he pisses off the wrong people.

“Hey.” Dean prods Seth’s ankle with the toe of his boot. “It’ll be good. We’re under contract, all we have to do is be irreplaceable. And we are. So we will be.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Seth lets out a breath. “I figure I’ve got enough brownie points racked up anyway that even if they throw me out I’ll still keep my spot in NXT.”

“Brownie points,” Dean says under his breath with a shake of his head. “Never heard of ‘em.”

“You wouldn’t,” Seth teases. “See, it’s this phrase that means—“

There’s a noise from the connecting room. 

They both fall silent, watching the door. Whoever the third guy is, he’s obviously here.

“About time,” Dean says, checking the time on the alarm clock sitting on the nightstand between the two beds. It’s six. “I was just about to see if you wanted to go get food.”

“Shh,” Seth shushes. They can hear moving around, now, footsteps and a soft _flump_ as someone sets (a bag?) down. There’s a pause where Seth holds his breath and Dean’s not saying anything, and then there’s a knock on the door, three quick raps. It sounds weirdly familiar, which it shouldn’t, because that’s how everyone knocks.

Dean and Seth exchange looks, and Dean gives Seth the go-ahead with a nod toward the door. “I’ve got more enemies than you,” he says in an undertone. “Chances are whoever it is’ll be more happy to see you than me.”

That’s reasonable enough. Seth gets to his feet and shakes out his hands, making his way over to the door. He counts to three in his head, enough times to prepare himself, and then he twists the handle of the door to open it.

He sees the guy’s arm before he sees the rest of him, and it’s all he needs to see to relax with a sigh.

“Roman,” he says. Back in the room, he can hear Dean groan his displeasure, but he ignores him. “Should’ve known.”

“Stole my line,” Roman replies. He looks relieved as well. “I was worried I’d have to make nice with McGillicutty.”

“Nope.” Seth tries a smile and edges out of the way to let Roman see who else is in the room. “Not McGillicutty.”

Roman wrinkles his nose at the sight of Dean flopped over dramatically on the bed. “Great.”

“He’s really not bad,” Seth coaxes. “Just a little hard to get along with.”

“Yeah, well, you seem to be doing it alright.” Roman gives him this little onceover that makes Seth remember in vivid detail that time Roman had walked in on him and Dean fooling around on the floor of the gym. “I’m sure I’ll find a way to deal with the mouth on him.”

“Uh,” says Seth. He’s not sure if that was meant to be an innuendo or not and he’s less sure how exactly he feels about it, so he changes the subject after he clears his throat. “Well, we’re just hanging out. Thought about getting something to eat but since we don’t know when Heyman’s stopping by, that might not be a good move.”

“Good thinking,” praises Roman, stepping past him when Seth moves to let him, closing the door behind him. “Evening, Ambrose.”

“You might as well call me Dean,” mutters Dean, pushing himself up from where he was staring dramatically at the ceiling, “since we’re gonna be working together and all.”

“Dean,” says Roman, rolling it around in his mouth. “You don’t look like a Dean.”

Dean looks incredulously at him, and then at Seth. “What about me doesn’t look like my own goddamn name?” he demands to know, then shakes his head before either of them can reply. “Whatever, call me what you want.”

Roman raises an eyebrow at Dean. He looks more calmly amused than anything, and Seth can see the moment Dean recognizes that, looking at Roman like he just got much more interesting. “I never said I wouldn’t call you Dean,” he says. “You can call me Roman.”

“Roman,” Dean mumbles. “Right, okay. What’s the deal with you, anyway?” he asks.

“How do you mean?” Roman puts his hands in his pockets. He’s very _big_. He’s got to be around the same height as Dean but he’s all built muscle. Seth can see why Heyman would’ve picked him. It’s clear that he’s the power of the group, out of the three of them.

“What with your _family history_ ,” Dean says, deliberately picking his words and watching Roman like a hawk. “I wouldn’t think you’d need to get a contract by being a goon for hire for Paul Heyman, is all.”

Roman’s gaze visibly cools. “I am more,” he says, practically biting the words out, “than my family’s name. I do not need to fall into line with their plans for me. I can do what I want, how I want, and so I will.”

Seth has goosebumps, a little, though that might be from the aircon, which is cranked up to a million and doesn’t need to be. He rubs his forearms and then turns, taking the few steps to the machine to turn it down. He feels like he’s in the middle of a standoff between Dean and Roman. They’re both just looking at each other, and the tension in the air in the room is practically solid.

“Okay, cool,” Dean finally says. “Whatever works for you. Far as I’m concerned, as long as we can work together, we shouldn’t have a problem doing what we need to.”

“Agreed,” says Roman. His shoulders slump from where they had been hunched defensively, and he gives Dean what looks like a fairly genuine smile. “What now?”

“Kind of clear what he was going for, isn’t it?” Dean asks, looking from Roman to Seth, who’s returned to sit back on his bed. “You’re the brawn,” he says to Roman, “and I guess I’d be the brain. You’re the pretty face, princess,” he says to Seth.

“Fuck you,” says Seth cheerily. He hears Roman muffling a laugh into his hand. “How’s that?”

Dean gives him a lecherous grin. “But darling, we’ve got company, it’d be frightfully rude—“

Just as earlier, they’re interrupted by a knock on the door. All three of them stop making noise to look over at it, this one on the main entrance rather than the connecting door.

“That’s gotta be Heyman, right?” says Roman quietly. “Nobody else should know we’re here.”

“It’s either Heyman or room service, and we haven’t ordered anything, so.” Dean gets to his feet. Considering his reasoning for Seth opening the door before, and how he’d called Heyman ‘Paul’ when they spoke on the phone earlier in the week, that might be the best option. He steps past Roman to answer it, and Roman lets out a sigh.

“Let’s get ready to rock and roll, then,” he says. He looks about as calm as Seth feels now that the moment of truth is so close.

“Don’t worry,” Seth says, parroting Dean from earlier as the man himself has a hand on the door handle. “We’ll be good. We’ll be amazing.”

“Hope you’re right,” Roman replies. 

Seth doesn’t say aloud, as the door opens, that he sure as hell hopes he’s right, too.


End file.
